Summer eyes
by neverland300690
Summary: What if all the mistakes made were unmade,other paths taken,history forever changed?What if King of Winter had to marry the Bastard Princess to ensure peace between two realms - how would play out?What would they do, feel, say? Would it even be possible within the realms of reason for something other than mistrust and dread to lay between them? Or is it all a lie? (minor jonXsansa)
1. With the scent of Summer still on you

_AN: This first chapter is a collection of moments from the show, and someof my own creations, seen from Myrcella's eyes. I wrote it because it helped me get in character and because it will show, after, how much she changes with time. In the begining i have made her about ten years old or so and she's about to turn sicteen by the end of this chapter. I know the timeline is muddled, but making her younger was too weird for me. Hope you like... :)_

_o_

_1. With the scent of Summer still on you..._

_" If there are gods, they made sheep so wolves could eat mutton, and they made the weak for the strong to play with. If you can't protect yourself, die and get out of the way of those who can. Sharp steel and strong arms rule this world, don't ever believe any different." _

_- A Clash of Kings -_

She has oftentimes heard her mother lament the fact that she was born female or sometimes, when the wine was sweet or her father's hand heavier than usual that 'you were born without a cock between you legs'. Myrcella had not been quite as flabbergasted as she should have been by the bluntness of it. Her mother was blunt about everything, even her love, and Myrcella was her mother's daughter in some ways more than others. Besides, though she was the only princess and her honour and virtue were guarded as vigilantly as Joffrey's life was, that did not preclude her from the whispers of the other ladies when her mother was not about. And the ladies of court were anything but the delicate little flowers they liked to pretend to be. By the time she was eight, Myrcella knew more bawdy japes than her brother who spent his time with the likes of the Hound. The diversity of her ladies cultures left a little to be desired perhaps, but Myrcella didn't understand this until much later in life. Most of them were of the westerlands; little lions without claws her mother called them, cubs that didn't know how to roar – and she would smile when she said so, with that little twist of her lips that made her look as frigid as the long winters that Myrcella had only heard of.

Her mother was cold and hard, strong as valyrian steel, and her anger was as devastating as anything Marcella could ever dream of. Mother was sometimes more Baratheon than father, the fury was more hers than his. But unlike most… well, unlike _all_ those around the queen, Myrcella never feared her mother's ire because it was only ever directed at other people. Even in her most furious moments, Cercei was only stern, never cruel, not with her daughter. Her cruelty sometimes was felt in the indifference that she treated Myrcella and Tommen with, but in comparison to her father's borderline ignorance of her existence, her mother's strange form of affection felt adequate enough. But then again, Myrcella had not known there were many other forms of affection between family, or other ways of families to be. Her sort of happiness was the only sort she knew and in the way of children, it was her whole world.

Or it was, until she turned ten years old and Jon Arryn, Hand of the King and kindly old man that was ever sweet to her and Tommen, died suddenly.

It was strange how some things that are so astounding in their normalcy later are revealed to have had an enormous effect on the choices that are made. Perhaps wiser people would have known when Jon Arryn drew his last breath, that something was stirring and change was coming. Doubtless, there were those that had been able to smell the blood and fire in the air and felt the beast lurking in the dark. But Myrcella was not those people. Despite the awareness she had of the stripped reality of courtly life around her (impossible not to know, she was her mother's daughter and her mother was a blunt woman), Myrcella was happy in the simple way of children. Living among liars had not robbed her of innocence. She was a child: too young to be a pawn of games worth mentioning and more importantly, she had a fierce lioness guarding her from the worst of it and perhaps _that_ more than anything had ensured her shielding from far deeper hurts than any child should bear.

So when her father announced that they were going north, Myrcella was profoundly exited. She wanted to see the vast plains of the North, she wanted to ride through them on a fast horse. She wanted to see the Riverlands and the icy mountains behind Winterfell that were said to look like dragon's teeth from afar. She should very much like to see Winterfell itself too, she thought, the ancient seat of the Kings of Winter, older than the Red Keep ever hoped to be, and meet a family that was the stuff of legends in the North, whose lineage, some said, went back further than any other in Westeros. Myrcella had heard that the Starks had the blood of the First Men and that they kept to the old faith of faceless gods of the forest… And she knew Ned Stark (who didn't!): the King always spoke of him more fondly than he spoke of his own brothers.

It all sounded so mysterious and grand and _exiting_! Though Myrcella kept to herself her particular brand of excitement because she was a princess after all, and a princess never reveals anything to anyone but her own self. Her mother had taught her that.

ooo

Myrcella was a Princess of the Seven Kingdoms. She was born as such and she had lived as such. She had been taught to walk with grace since she could land her first steps, to measure her words as soon as she spoke her first one; taught of courtly manners and a lady's behaviour before she could even understand there was another way to be. She was a princess of the Iron Throne, a Baratheon of Storms end, and a Lannister of the Rock after that and in the very end, in her own chambers without any eyes about, she could be Myrcella, the girl who liked riding better than dancing, drawing better than reading and if she must read, history better than poems.

But even Myrcella of House Baratheon, Princess of the Iron Throne that had seen more grand keeps and castles than most girls her age, had to gape at the sight that Winterfell made when she first laid eyes on it. Her father had declared many times when upon the road that the first sight of Winterfell would stay with you forever, that it was something that you could not shake off from memory. When she did see it, Myrcella had to agree. Heavy walls of dark stone offset by the iron sky, the open planes around it and mountains beyond. To Myrcella, Winterfell it seemed like a curious mix of fascinating and frightening in its being so very different from everything she had ever known: different from the warmth of the Red Keep, the clear white walls of Storm's End and its elegance, or the tasteful opulence of the Rock. Winterfell was cheerless and looming; it seemed as unmovable and eternal as the mountains themselves. It was a fortress that did not pretend to be anything but that, and for the very first time Myrcella felt she understood the meaning of the words of house Stark. Winter is coming, they said. Here, it felt very true.

ooo

She steps out of the vault-carriage before her lady mother does, and instantly she feels the familiar prickling of all eyes present settling upon her. It is a thing she is used to, and it does not phase her much, because she knows it will stop the moment her queenly mother appares. When she does, the stares move away and Myrcella feels a little less constrained. She takes in the family waiting for them and they seem… so normal, just like any other family, if perhaps a little more pleasant of face than most. She almost expected them to look somewhat strange, what a silly notion! They are as alike to her as every other noblewoman ad noblemen are to each other. But there are other things to be noticed as well. Lord Stark's eyes are as grey as the sky above, just as grave and patience is the first thing she notices of him. It's so obvious even Myrcella can see it. Lady Stark looks different with her vivid red hair and summer-blue-sky eyes. She is contained and so polite… and yet for the life of her Myrcella cannot draw a comparison between her mother and this other mother; it's as if they are two different creatures altogether. But that is not unexpected: nobody is like her mother, because her mother is the queen and the queen is unlike any other woman alive… and her hardness and that dangerous glint in those green eyes is there for all to see when the King ignores her for the crypts of Winterfell.

The story of the King's dead beloved is so famous, even Myrcella knows it. According to the story – of which Myrcella has caught only whispers, and even those she was never meant to hear (if her mother knew, she'd cut off the lips that had spoken those whispers to her daughter) - this unknown Stark woman is the reason that the King never could love his queen. That her mother was never this woman, is the reason for the indifference and scorn and sometimes blind rage that the King shows to the queen. Many people seem to think so. What Myrcella thinks is that perhaps, since this woman seems to be the reason for so many things, she is also the reason her father is such a poor father… but she cannot be certain of that. Myrcella has never known this woman who name is never mentioned and her mother the queen always says that the faults of a an belong only to the man himself, and noon else.

Sometimes, though she is still so painfully young, Myrcella wonders if there really is such a thing as love, the way the poems and songs seem to describe it. Her ladies and her maids seem to think of nothing but love, and yet, for all the talks of it, Myrcella has never witnessed anything resembling the sentiment as it is described, not within the halls of the Red Keep at least. In life, this 'love' somehow never looked grand enough, pretty enough, or even real enough, between the couples she knew. The realest love she knew of was that which the King had borne a girl long dead – and even that was at its best, just a story, the only difference being that it happened to someone she knows. But this man that she calls father, the King… she cannot for the life of her imagine him in love with anyone – at least not the way men in love seemed to be, on the pages of dusty books. And that was how Myrcella got the idea that perhaps the songs had it wrong. Perhaps love was not the way they made it sound. It was either that, or believing that there was no real love in this world and for it to exist, men made it into poems and pretty words.

Sometimes, not even that seems true. Sometimes, like that one time in Winterfell's courtyard, when her mother was shown such casual brutality from the man that is her husband, Myrcella even thinks that she will never trust in men's love, ever, and think everyone who speaks of it liars. She longs to go and hold her mother's hand just then, kiss that soft palm, so deep was the hurt Myrcella felt in the name of the woman that she loves like no other.

_This, _this_ is love, she thinks._ It's what she feels for her mother and Tommen, and sometimes, when he is not so careless, even Joffrey. It's what she feels for her uncle Jamie and her uncle Tyrion, and that's where it ends. Love is only real for family, only for your blood, just as her mother always said.

And there she is, her mother, the queen. Myrcella hurts for her, but the queen is a woman like no other: Cercei Lannister simply brushes the insult off, though her eyes scorch like fire, and greets the lady of house Stark. _A queen, _Myrcella thinks in awe… and admires her mother's strength fiercely. In the presence of so much unscathed dignity, her own hurt abates. _Strong like my mother_, she thinks, and slowly remembers how to be happy again. There are still so many things to be happy about: the North is wild and beautiful, her mother is untouchable, her uncles make her laugh, sweet Tommen holds her hand and Robb Stark is so very handsome. So many things, and that Myrcella remembers them so easily is the reason why she is still a child. She forgets all dark thoughts about love and lies and ill husbands in a matter of hours and spends the rest of the day searching for things to be happy about, finding them around every corner.

In the raucous feast that evening, she smiles freely and willingly. There is music and there is dancing and it's not so very controlled and pretty as it is in the Red Keep, which is why Myrcella likes it even better. All she has to do is look pretty, and though he doesn't look at her once, Myrcella keeps thinking that Robb Stark looks his best when he is smiling and – even better – laughing. She very much likes his laugh, she thinks. And she likes him better than any boy before him, because he is the first one that doesn't remind her of anyone at all.

ooo

Myrcella thinks she has a fair grasp of courtly life and its intrigues and has learned from a very early hour that everyone in the Red Keep lies and that is why she is so good at being a Princes, why it's so important that she be that way. _'You are above it all'_ her mother always said. '_You are the lion, it is for lower beasts to fear you._' But Myrcella knows she is no lion; she has no claws, no sharp teeth. At the very best, she is a little doe in the forest, she sometimes thinks - though not even the Baratheon name suits her because she has no fury which to call her own. But she has manners and politeness and the willingness to take her mother's lessons to heart, because she builds herself in layers of names and words and that is why most lies slide off her like water off a duck. And of course, she has been protected from the worst of it, which is why her innocence manages to survive.

But childhood had to end for Myrcella too, and the first blow comes when her father dies. Her brother ascends to the throne then, Lord Eddard Stark loses his head for treason and a war starts… and that is when Myrcella learns the true faces of cruelty.

Surprisingly (but not for some) it wears the face of her own brother - now the King - more often than that of the enemies in the north that the court is terrified about. She hears of the Young Wolf (Robb Stark, she still remembers his face, even the sound of his laugh) is terrorizing the armies of the crown, that he is a traitor and a monster who feasted on the flesh of the dead, who kills children and rapes women… and it all sounds horrible, as one of the ghastly stories of the Long Night she once found in a book she was not supposed to read at all. It hardly sounds real, but Myrcella knows it is. She cannot hear the clash of swords but that does not mean that it's not happening. Somewhere men and women are dying, their families are mourning them.

But then one day, Myrcella watches the smile on her handsome brother's face as Sansa (sweet, gentle Sansa) is beaten before his court and stripped and humiliated, she watches with mounting horror the pleasure he takes in it all – and Joffrey's cruelty feels more real to her than any savagery in a distant field somewhere she had never been, because his cruelty is playful, so casual it hurts and terrifies her for the first time in her life. The hand over her mouth is the only thing trapping her shriek. But the hall is so quiet, only Sansa's whimpers echo and it's a nightmare...

Joffrey had never daunted her before. He had played cruel tricks on her and Tommen but they were children and even when Joffrey was atrocious, Myrcella had never felt fear because of him. Now it's different. The shock of what she has seen stays with her and she is now so terrified of her brother's capability for violence - the King, she corrects, the _King_ now - that she doesn't even dare speak to him anymore. His every twitch alarms her… and her mother knows, she knows and whispers to Myrcella not to be afraid, that a King must pay a heavy toll for their people's obedience, but that Joffrey would never harm a hair on her head because she is his blood and _'we do not hurt family, we are lions and we protect our own.'_

Myrcella watches Sansa stare at the horizon as they pretend to sew in her chambers, Lannister ladies busy as bees and merry around them… and she starts to doubt her mother's words, for the very first time in her life.

ooo

Her mother's infallibility came to a slow demise in the princess's eyes, and that was the first chime of the bell. The other blows come raining after, soon enough, relentless. Myrcella does not grow apart from her family, but she does grow a head of her own, because as things turn out to be, nobody can be trusted to do her thinking for her. She loves her mother, but even at one and ten Myrcella knows that sometimes the queen is wrong, that her coldness isn't always strength and that her pride is sometimes cruel, because cruelty has many faces and nobody is there to spear the princes of them anymore. There is no shelter, not from war. And war is raging.

And yet, even knowing all this, it still feels like an unbelievable dream when she is told she is to be sent to Dorne.

_Dorne_, whose darling princess was raped and murdered by order of her grandfather. Oh yes, she knows the story. Her mother thinks she doesn't, but she does. You can't live in the Red Keep and not know the names of all those who died there. Myrcella thinks of Sansa, of the casual evil her brother does by her just because he likes to hear her scream and she cries that night, for the first time in a long time. Cries long and heavy tears because she wants to exhaust them while she is just Myrcella in her rooms. Tomorrow in the shipyards, she will be the princess. There will be no place for tears then.

ooo

Dorne is not an easy place to live in for someone that looks like the incarnation of a Lannister icon… but it's not the hell Myrcella imagined it to be either. She almost grows used to it, the kind of distant resentment, the open-sky captivity of Sunspear. She feels the people's contempt but she knows she is lucky: there are no cruelties, no beatings, no sudden and inexplicable attacks. And there is Trystane. Sweet, patient and gentle Trystane who teaches her, plays with her, and answers every question. Who lets her send letters home, to her mother and more frequently to Tommen. She misses her little brother with an ache that makes her every happiness turn a little bit to ash in her mouth, misses his companionship and his games, his sweetness that compared to nothing else and made every place without him feel lonely… and she had never realized it until she was parted from him.

At first, Trystane was the only reason she did not cry every night. But in time, she learns to make friends and soon enough, her life finds smiles again.

As in all alcoves of power, Sunspear too plays has games of shadows, making people dance through invisible strings, but Myrcella learns not to be worried about that. When she was sent there, it was not of manipulation she feared: games she can grow to learn. Her mother had told her not to trust anyone so she doesn't. Instead she sharpens her fangs and claws on the people that presume to play her for a fool. She didn't realize it till then that her the queen's motherly advice have been lessons preparing her for exactly this.

She is quick, Myrcella comes to realize, quicker than most about her, in catching the drift of things. Her mind has run the distance when other people's has yet to turn the corner: she _has_ to be that way, to save herself from the stinging bite of humiliation. She learns the tunes to dance to by watching those that play the game: Arianne and the Snakes, the ruling prince and his court. The realization comes quickly: it's all about knowing what people want and knowing yourself – you have to know what you want too, and how far you're prepared to go to get it. Manipulation, Tyene calls it, eyes gleaming in the dark. Myrcella doesn't like how that sounds, but cannot help it: it's the truth. Her grandfather's granite eyes come to mind and she shudders every time she thinks she might be anything like him… she _can't_ be, she's afraid of the man. If she were anything like him she'd be afraid of herself, and she is very careful not to do anything that might bring her to that point.

But the game has its high points: knowing that she can take care of herself brings her a sort of exhilarating thrill. Knowing that she has the skill to sometimes get people to do the things she wants, that has its own appeal too, but most of the time, lying gets exhausting.

'_You lack the hunger'_, princess Arianne tells her one night. _'You don't play for power. _

But the princess cannot seem to understand that the most Myrcella wants is not to play at all. To be left alone and to live simply, not to be a pawn dragged into games that she can scarcely comprehend. That is what she fears most: being dragged into dangerous conflicts the reach of which she cannot grasp, battles in which she cannot fight back. Being used is what Myrcella fights to prevent, nothing more. Because in Sunspear Myrcella has come to a painful understanding: being born a princess meant that would will be forever part of this dark game of shadows. Her blood demanded it, and always would. Even if the kingdom fell tomorrow and her brother a was king no longer, she'd still be part of the repercussions: she was born a princess and for that she would have to die. Myrcella was born a pawn and a woman at that and finally, _finally_, she understand her mother's regret at the missing cock between Myrcella's legs.

But Sunspear is different in that respect. Sunspear does not see women as unfit to wield power. Dorne is the land of queen Nymeria, where women are as openly fierce as men and nobody turns their eyes at them for that. '_Woman or not, doesn't matter here. As long as you're willing, you can be queen_.' Arianne is the very first to tell her that.

'_Don't you want to be your own master?'_

And this time Myrcella is smart enough to knew that Arianne is playing her, calling on that helplessness that Myrcella sometimes feels, that resentment for other leading her life. Arianne is too shrewd, and that is why Myrcella doesn't trust her.

But she cannot deny the seductiveness of that faraway prospect: to be in nobody's power but your own. What a thought! What a _dream_…

A queen, Myrcella thinks… and yet all she can conjure is her mother's resentful face. Her mother who lives off anger and bitterness and who hates her life with the exact measure that she loves the power it entails. No, Myrcella thinks, she would rather _not_ be queen anywhere. She is not very fond of crowns anyway: they seem to do queer things to the heads beneath them1. She wants peace, something akin to happiness, something so much simple than a kingdom. She wants quiet and to live her life free of hatred and lies… and power breeds hatred and lies more than anything else it might grant - Myrcella knows that better than most. Robert Baratheon spent his whole reign telling everyone with ears it wasn't worth it and that is the one lesson that Myrcella has kept of the man she had once called father.

So she chooses to be happy with her handsome prince instead. Dorne seems so far off from the rest of Westeros that this fantasy of hers seems more real there than it would have been anywhere else. And Trystane is perhaps the one man that Myrcella can imagine herself being happy with. He is nothing like Robert Baratheon, for one, and not once does he touch her unkindly – something that Myrcella values almost above everything else. But there are other things about Trystane, more private things, things that she learns slowly and that bring them closer. He is her best friend soon enough. It's easy to love him, and Myrcella loves him sweetly, as only one of three and ten can love.

But a quiet simple life was never meant for a princess, and somewhere in her heart where her mother's whispers always rang loudest, Myrcella has always known that.

They were attacked by a band of rogues, they said, just on the day when there were few guards enough for harm to be done. She had been terrified but Trystane pushed her behind himself and drew steel to fight. He was six and ten and he looked very much like a man then, when he slashes open the belly of the one that would have cut him down. It looks like it's over and Trystane is helping Myrcella up on her feet when an arrow spears through his head, splattering her with his blood. By the time he is picked up off of her, she is covered in his blood and will know the taste of it till the day she dies.

_That_ is when the Princess first has a taste of hatred, and not before.

And that was how Myrcella of House Baratheon finally owned her fury and how she discovered the one thing nobody ever told her about hate: they say it burns, and it _does_, but why do they never say how it _hurts_? Because it _did_! A slow, familiar scorch that she had so steadily avoided, one that made her feel cold and small and mean and _lesser_. An emotional tide so foreign within her that it felt unnatural as much as it was part of her. One that Myrcella tried to control because she cannot stand the way it alienates her from what she had known of her own nature.

_Ours is the fury! How very presumptuous of us…_

Fury belonged to every soul who knew how to tame it. How to use it. She too had to find a way to do that, because the one thing that she had not forgotten was the King – Robert Baratheon, who was fury as unleashed as the hurricanes that battered the walls of Storm's End, without measure, without restrain - and how she had never once wanted to be anything like him.

ooo

She returns to King's Landing different, and finds a different place. She has a good foot of height more than she did when she left, a scar on her cheek that makes grown men cringe and new steel in her bones. She is not a child anymore, nor has she been for a while. Or so she thinks. She feels different, and that is a certainty. Five and ten is early to think herself a woman, but then again, perhaps not. Others were mothers are five and ten…

She enters the Keep and she sees her mother and her Kingly brother, sweet Tommen by their side, and only when she sees _him_ and his so open smile does Myrcella feel even a small ounce of joy being brought back to this place she'd once called home. But after the curtsies are done and after she has held her little brother tightly to herself, soft hair between her fingers and smooth cheeks under her lips even though he is almost three and ten now… after that, strangely, (is it irony?) her eyes search the court for Sansa Stark too, because it's in _her_ eyes that Myrcella wants to find a mirror.

But Sansa isn't there, Joff is even more unhinged than she remembers, and her mother's shiny eyes hurt, because her love feels different now. Myrcella was taught well, too well: to be a princes first, a Baratheon second (though that she never has been), a Lannister after that… and in the very last instance a daughter.

_A bastard…_

The queen is not keen on the distinction now that it's against her; she does not like the politeness of Myrcella's address, even in their chambers, the formality between strangers. It hurts Cercei perhaps, when she sees how unchanged Myrcella is with Tommen, how freely she gives her love and sweetness to the brother she'd so missed, and how stubbornly she denies it to all the rest. Myrcella does not like to hurt her mother, but with the things she had heard and what she has seen, believing that this woman is really someone who loves her well feels on the verge of the unreal. The resentment over everything she's learned is too fresh every time she looks upon that queenly face to pretend otherwise. (…and Myrcella has heard much indeed. Because it was when Trystane died that the whispers started to finally reach her. It was only then that Myrcella realized just how much the dornish prince had loved her, and how safe he had really kept her. It was then that she knew love, and her heart had broke over Trystane twice for it.)

How could Cercei Lannister love her daughter, when she made her and her brothers a bastard, the bane of an entire realm? When she cuckolded a whole kingdom and killed to keep it. When she allowed a monstrosity like Joffrey sit his puny arse on that ugly chair. And if it's true still that her queenly mother loves her, if Myrcella were to believe it, then what did that mean? What kind of person was this woman that had borne her? So strong, so hard… so foreign now, after so long without her. _'Who am I to hate her for it'_ Myrcella asks herself more than once. She has no answer for that either. But the truth remains that seeing who her mother has become is a blow that lands hard, and after being so long away from her own family, being privy now to the many shades of their depravity lands even harder. Is it any wonder, she thinks one night, that all the realm scorns us, that they hate us?

But Myrcella is not just a subject to her queen. She is also her mother's daughter and there are things that she wants to know, questions that she wants to ask. Questions like, '_who is my father, really'_, because she wants to her the truth from her own mother's lips – or perhaps because she wants to see if there will be a lie, even to her face. She could ask '_why did you do it_', but Myrcella cannot resent her mother for cheating on her husband because she knows what kind of a husband Robert Baratheon was to Cercei Lannister. The next question would be '_why on the seven hells with your own brother?_' but that is the one question Myrcella never considers, because never will she ever be able to understand it. She looks at Tommen, at Joffrey (gods save me!) and her whole being revolts at the idea, body and soul.

Contradictions rise and clash inside her but Myrcella doesn't speak them, she won't. Too much has passed and it's been too long since she trusted anyone. Besides, there are no answers she actually _needs,_ not anymore.

It seems that after so long in Dorne, she really has become the girl with no father.

ooo

She knows she is being watched. She feels eyes following her everywhere she goes, and even considers playing with those little spies once or twice, just to let those who would presume to spy on her know that she is not as oblivious as she seems. But Dorne and the Sand Snakes have taught her well: you're to know your strengths and cloak yourself in your weaknesses, and never let anyone know the difference until it's too late and the blade has already slipped between their ribs, quiet as you like…

Myrcella catches herself thinking thus, and she realizes she is still operating on the mindset that she is not safe, that she is amongst enemies. And then Myrcella wonders, why should she rethink it? The Red keep was always a dangerous place. 'A pit of snakes', she had heard Doran Martell call it. Lucky for Myrcella, her time in Dorne has taught her to like snakes well enough… So instead of showing to all with eyes that she is not just a sweet little girl anymore, Myrcella invites Sansa to have tea with her in the gardens and spend as much time with her and Tommen as she can, ever so discretely dwindling the number of her ladies in waiting down to those that she can actually stand listening to. Sansa comes, and Myrcella leaves her be. They eat in silence, read in silence, sometimes play with Tommen's kittens and tell the boy stories. There are eyes on Sansa too, one pair in particular, but Myrcella thinks the other girl knows that already.

Mostly, Myrcella just spends days in the sun with her little brother. They speak incessantly, of everything they have been doing and learning. Tommen and his kittens have not changed, and Myrcella feels the familiar happiness of love whenever she is with him. The one thing of her that has not changed on bit apparently, is how much she dotes on her little brother. He is to Myrcella, now more than ever, the only ray of sunshine in that obscure place that the Red Keep has become. He is still so pure, so innocent. Myrcella loves his most for that, and she feels the burst of a protectiveness that she had never felt for anyone before. It tastes remarkably like fear, this new feeling. What would happen to her poor brother in this place, she wonders. He is still so much like a child and never more than when she is with him does Myrcella feel the weight of the last few years she has spent in Dorne, growing and learning.

But Tommen pushes the darkness away with just a smile and Myrcella finds herself telling him of Sunspear and the Watergardens, of Hellhold and the Stony Shore and the Red Waste. Her brother listens like she is telling fantastic tales, and Myrcella kisses his round cheek for it, even when he squirms. He asks her one day, so softly, about her scar… and Myrcella tells him that she will tell him one day, when he is older, because out of all her stories that one is the one that would give her brother nightmares for sure.

Myrcella does not miss the way Joffrey watches them over supper, or the looks he gives Tommen, and she quivers inside, though whether its fear of anger or both, she really cannot tell. She would beg her mother to send him away from the Red Keep, if only there were any places safer for her brother to be. But there are not, and Myrcella knows her mother would never consider it. She can still hear Cercei whispering _'everyone who isn't us is the enemy'_.

She follows Joffrey's eyes on her little brother, and tells herself not to be so angry, it was not the first time her mother had been wrong.

ooo

When her mother snaps at her one night, patience running as thin as ever, Myrcella is the one to stay composed and unperturbed. The queen herself had told her this a long time ago: '_never show your fear. If your enemy smells your weakness, you have already lost_'. Her mother is not the enemy, but Myrcella is weary of everyone in this castle.

"You look at me, and you don't like what you see." She said slowly, wiping the corners of her mouth delicately as ever. "I am sorry for that lady mother, but this is the price of belonging to you."

Myrcella spoke honestly, without intent to harm. She spoke a truth that she had discovered in the sands of Dorne: we all pay a price for the blood that flows in our veins, even if our only fault is being born. The price is paid in pieces of your soul.

To Myrcella that simply spoke of growing up in a world that was as awful as you fear it to be, and where the worst that could happen usually happened, unless you found a way to make it otherwise. That was why it had been _her_ choice to grow claws in the heat of the desert. She'd _chosen_ to do so, before the choice had been made for her. She had chosen herself the pieces of her soul that were to be gifted to the wind, sacrificed for eyes that saw the world more clearly. '_The sands of Dorne are full of secrets_', Obara had said to her once. They would keep Myrcella's secrets as well as they had kept others for thousands of years. So Myrcella had chosen pieces of childhood and sweetness and innocence, left them scattered in the sand… gone, but not forgotten. Because Myrcella did not want to be like Cercei Lannister even in the places where the mirror didn't show.

Her mother stares at her over their dinner, the words Myrcella just spoke hanging over them like a stench. The queen's expression is unreadable but even so Myrcella knows she is not hated. She knows that in all likehood nobody ever did love her with Cercei's fierceness, but Myrcella still feels the need to leave the room. There are many ways to love, and Cercei's love is barbed; one cannot stand it for long and remain whole.

'May I be excused' she asks, and Cercei denies her, but her grandfather sends her of off with a wave of his hand. She leaves… and fills her days with books and quiet corners, and Sansa Stark's sad and silent presence, because it's safe to say that both girls know neither will disturb the other and it's the closest to peace they are likely to find, so they are both content in that.

ooo

She knows when the war starts turning for the worst. Uncle Jamie was captured by the wolves, she is told (she'd never even seen him, not in years… and to her rue, she'd missed him) and suddenly her mother's fierce moods make more sense. The riverlands are free, the Wesfold is falling. The Tyrell's are at court – have been since uncle Renly died - and Sansa has been put aside for wily lady Margery. The two richest houses of Westeros united; nothing could possibly stand long against them, they say. Everything is made to look as if they are winning, but Myrcella knows they are not. Uncle Stannis has never been stronger than now – the Stormlods are finally his and Myrcella is not as stupid as most seem to think her: the only possible direction uncle Stannis will take is King's Landing. She would know that even if she didn't know that her grandfather and Uncle Tyrion are preparing the city for a siege.

And what was most curious, there is a reason apparently that she was spirited out of Dorne in the middle of the night so suddenly and the reason is simple, though only her uncle Tyrion bothered to explain it all to her: had she stayed she would have been traded to the Northern forces as a hostage and then Robb Stark would have himself a Princess too, as well as Tywin Lannister's heir, since Dorne had aligned with the North (or rather, against the crown) and they were proving much more overwhelming than anyone had ever thought, for a reason no one had dared predict: where Dorne had always lacked for men, now it did no longer: sellswords of Essos had swelled their numbers and bore the speared sun of Dorne on their chests as well as their own symbols, fighting for Oberyn Martell alongside the Young Wolf. Myrcella remembered when the rumours had reached Dorne that he had been dead at one point, that he'd been betrayed somewhere, by someone. Greatly exaggerated rumours, apparently, since Robb Stark was very much alive and while the Blackfish defended the Riverlands and half the northern army was in the process of fighting off the Second Ironborn Rebellion, the King of Winter and Oberyn Martell were steadily advancing for the westerlands, plundering and killing as they went, scorching earth and rock alike. At some point it was believed that Kevan Lannister, her granduncle and grandfather's most trusted general, had been taken captive – though that turned out to be a lie (not the part about him being soundly defeated at the Crag though).

How on the seven hells had Robb Stark convinced the dornish prince to fight for him nobody seemed to be sure of, and to Myrcella that seemed intolerably stupid; as if Prince Oberyn needed to be told twice when it came to killing Lannisters! But her grandfather Tywin had been counting on Myrcella's worth as a hostage, on Doran Martell's cautious and opportunistic nature. He had made the mistake of underestimating the festering hatred that all of Dorne bore the Lannisters for killing their princess so savagely. Myrcella had felt that hatred on her skin, she was not so quick to dismiss it.

Though she was no general, even Myrcella knew that between the prospect of Stannis attacking and Robb Stark marching for the Rock, the choice was not an easy one. The Iron Throne, or the Lannister ancestral seat, the worth of which was the bones upon which the kingdom was run? If her grandfather didn't make a decision soon, he would soon find himself without a home, because after the devastation that the Mountain had left behind in the Riverlands, everyone expected the Young Wolf to dispense savage retaliation in turn.

The truth of it was that they were walking the knife's blade and one wrong move and they would fall on it. The knowledge of it beat in Myrcella's breast like a second heart, because everyone knows what happens to princesses of the losing side. Nobody spoke of it, but the truth was in the queen's penchant for drink at the dinner table, as it was in Joffrey newfound brand of cruelty.

Apparently, for some reason privy to Joff alone, four years and some months in Dorne made her dornish, so he started taking his frustration out on her more often than not – especially when there was nobody around to stay his hand, like the queen, her grandfather the Hand, or even her uncle. For the most part Myrcella bore it with the dignity instilled in her from her very first breath and exercised much needed restrain when he ridiculed her in front of all the high nobility of King's Landing: '_show us your ear Myrcella, I want to see it. It's not every day we get mutilated freak for a princess'_. There was no other way. Joffrey may be vicious, but he was also the King, much to the eternal woe of all seven Kingdoms, and so he was to be borne by all, his sister included.

But it's not until Joffrey takes it a step too far that Myrcella makes him bleed, when his hand made its way to places a brother's hand should never find itself. She was caught in a panic that made her act before she knew what was in charge of her own limb… and its then that he has her beaten. Not himself, obviously. And not in public as with his former lady love of the North. There was no humiliation there, only rage of a boy spurned. Myrcella thinks of Ser Arys who had died for her in the desert. She thought about the knights and smallfolk that she had seen on the road to the capital, mutilated and left for the crows. When a blow catches her on the lips and breaks skin formidably, its Trystane's blood she still tastes in her mouth. She doesn't cry, she doesn't plead for him to stop. She knows by now that it will only amuse him, just as Sansa's tears did, and push him to hurt her more.

It's almost hilarious, later, seeing her mother's horrified face when the queen sees her back and blue. There is nothing amusing about it, but if she can't raise a hand to her monster brother, is it not fair that she at least taunt the creature who made him? Does Cercei Lannister not deserve every bit of cruelty on this earth for whelping out that creature she calls son? For daring to love him despite his nature? If Joffrey had been her spawn, Myrcella was sure she would have smothered him in his bed with her own hands by now. But Cercei has ever loved two entities in her life: her self and her children, and her love is as fierce as it is terrible.

In the days of the aftermath, when Myrcella can get move without wincing, she sits with Sansa and her own ladies, refuses her mother's invite for super because she is angry at her still and accepts lady Olena's call for tea because it's a challenge. She fell, she says with a smile as frosty as a winter morning, fell right on the fists and backhands of two full armours guards. Lady Olena scoffs, sweet manipulative Margery sips her tea silently. The only one that dares not look at her in the eye is Sansa Stark, the traitors daughter that knows exactly how it feels. She can't afford to trust a Lannister, and Myrcella can't afford to trust Sansa either. Its only in silence that their companionship is possible. If they fall into words they betray themselves.

In the end it doesn't matter. Because strangely enough, it's in her mother that the greater part of Myrcella's anger calcifies. She is the only one that seems to want to _earn_ Myrcella's contempt – and it's not an easy thing to do, because every drip of it makes her feel as if her insides are being torn. And maybe it's twisted, but Myrcella feels strangely free to scorn her mother precisely because that scorn is not without its price, precisely because she is still capable of hurting over it. Had she not been, it would have meant she is someone she did not want to be, and that would have been frightening indeed.

"You should have been born barren." Myrcella says one night, in a peculiarly fit of rage that came from nowhere. The queen had been speaking of something or other and it was the look on her face at the mention of Joffrey's name that set Myrcella off. But she spoke with such calm fury that it startles even her always impassive uncle, and his usually so mocking gaze slips into completive for a single moment before the slap makes Myrcella's eyes sting a little. It doesn't even hurt, though her cheek is still tinted with purple where the last remnants of violence have not yet ebbed away.

Myrcella's indifference at the violence is perhaps a greater punishment for Cercei than any other reaction her daughter might have had... but Tyron does not say that out loud while the girl is there, because he still holds to what he told Cercei almost five years before: he does not blame Myrcella for her mother at all.

oOo

Ever before dinner starts, the queen is half in her cups and Joffrey is angrier than Myrcella has ever seen him. It's funny really and had it not been tantamount to forfeiting her life, she would have laughed soundly at how his face was so red like a horseradish and at how he kept scowling like one of the jackals that princess Arianne used to keep chained to one wall in her gardens. It's only grandfather's presence that keeps him in check, because in life the only thing monsters fear are even bigger monsters – and Myrcella finds a cold solace in that, because at least Tywin was not a vicious idiot like her most noble, kingly brother. When Sansa enters the room however, Myrcella is stunned. Something is afoot she thinks, and before Joffrey can so much as open his mouth, she stand and goes towards the girl, taking her hands and kissing her cheeks as if they had not seen each other in days when in fact they were together just yesterday afternoon.

"Sansa, darling, how have you been?"

"I'm well, thank you, your grace." Sansa responded politely.

"Come sit by me, I've missed you." and it's not a suggestion as Myrcella walks towards her own seat, the one as far away from Joffrey as possible without actually being in the other room. In another life, it would have been ridiculous how, though she feels so close to the Stark girl, they only ever share words when her family is around. But in this one, it makes perfect sense. Words are lies, Myrcella thinks, words are wind. But sometimes they are needed.

"Why are you so familiar?" Joffrey snaps, his irritation feeling more hot than usual. "She is a traitors daughter, she should be flogged every day not greeted by a princess – even one as ugly as you, sister."

Myrcella didn't even blink. "I have not forgotten who the girl is, brother. But I have grown a certain fascination for pretty things lately and Sansa does not mind indulging me."

"Ever since you lost your own face, you mean?" Joffrey sneered, but the queen threw him a hard glare and he stilled, even if a little, just as Myrcella sat down and proceeded to make idiotic small talk with the wolf among the hungry lions. At the same time her mind was working furiously. What was going on? Her grandfather illuminated them the moment the servants let the room.

"Lady Sansa." His voice is enough to stop all conversation. "You are to be returned to your brother in a fortnight in exchange for my son. It is his only term for peace between our Kingdoms and so it shall be."

And just like that, Sansa's fork dropped on her plate and she turned as white as a chalk, eyes brimming with tears. Myrcella was rendered speechless (Joffrey less so). Sansa herself could do nothing but stare at her plate and try to breathe. Myrcella on the other hand, was calculating the odds. So, Robb Stark had overrun the westerlands then? She wondered if maybe he even had breached Casterly Rock. That was the only reason she could think of that would make grandfather so willing to allow the break of a piece of the seven Kingdoms. Had the Young Wolf burned everything? Or was _that_ the sword he was holding over Tywin Lannister's head? Myrcella couldn't help but want to smirk though there was precious little to be amused in this, not from her side. But from a generic point of view, she could appreciate the simplicity of it, as well as the brilliance: the Young Wolf had found the one thing that mattered to her grandfather more than his pride, and that was his _Lannister_ pride. He wouldn't leave much to his heirs if the Rock was but a burned ruin, now would he…

"Are you listening girl?"

Both she and Sansa looked up at the same time, Sansa perhaps a little more startled than Myrcella's face demonstrated, but both mirroring the same expression. It was in Myrcella's eyes that her grandfather was looking however.

"As part of the arrangement, you are to marry Robb Stark to ensure the continuation of peace between our realms, along with several other marriages between his close kin and ours. But that does not concern you."

And finally, the glass smashing against the wall drew everyone's attention. To Myrcella it felt very adequate: her own mind had just broken apart in quite a similar fashion, only hers was done more quietly.

But Cercei had never been the quiet type.

"I will _not_ let this happen to my daughter again!"

Myrcella looked at her mother and she knew that her eyes were pleading with her. She felt like a girl again, Cercei's ferocity trying to protect her just like it did when she was a child.

Her grandfather did not seem impressed.

"Control yourself." was all he said, and said it with such distain that it was a wonder her mother did not shrink a couple of inches. But Myrcella was only vaguely aware of it at that point, listening as if from another room. Her mind was struggling to piece itself back together and form some sort of sensible response to all this… this…

This could _not_ happen. She would _not_ be another Elia of Dorne, another Sansa of the Red Keep. He could not mean it, not even Tywin was that… oh, _oh_ but he _was_. He most certainly was. Another man, perhaps not, but Tywin Lannister was precisely _that_ sort of man! Myrcella felt the knowledge still in her mind and take root, even though part of her felt completely aghast at the idea. The other part, the part that had grown in her after the Darkstar slashed her open, resolved to do anything but plead and rage like a wounded animal. Instead she needed to think of a solution. Nobody would save her here. She had to save herself.

She should have expected it, she tells herself. In a way she really had known: out of the two attacking armies they faced, only one was prepared to discuss peace and that was Robb Stark, because he, unlike uncle Stanis, did not want anything to do with the south at all. He only wanted his sister. Myrcella had known that. What she had forgotten had been herself: her blood and her worth as a Princess: her womb.

"I will not let you sell her to a bunch of savages that are as likely to rip her limb from limb as they are to keep her as queen! I'd rather see her dead, here and now!"

Myrcella felt shivers run up and down her spine. She had not even noticed that Sansa had been holding her hand under the table.

"Cercei..." Uncle Tyrion tried, but her mother was snarling at _him_ now, and he was not grandfather which meant she did not contain herself with him: her expression became downright poisonous.

"This is _your_ doing! I _know_ it is." she hissed between clenched teeth, lips pulled back like a snarling lioness. "Why does she even have to go? What assurance do we have that he will even wed her? He could kill her the second he has his sister!"

"He won't." Her grandfather said and there was such assurance in his tone that Myrcella found herself frowning… because for once her mother was very much right: he really didn't have any assuredness that Robb Stark would honour his word. Even if the King in the North was the most honourable man alive, her grandfather didn't believe in such frivolities as words of honour. There simply _had_ to be something more. Something that Tywin Lannister was still holding over the Winter King's neck. Something, Myrcella quickly reasoned, that would explain how on earth had he managed to convince Robb Stark of wedding the enemy when the war was all but in his favour. She had no idea what it was of course – except for Sansa, they really had nothing that Robb Stark wanted – or so she'd thought. What kind of devilry had Tywin Lannister concocted this time to have his way?

"You don't _know_ that!" Cercei insisted, almost screaming this time. "Just give that stupid girl back to them and let them freeze off on their northern barrenness. It's no concern of ours!"

"Enough!" Grandfather's voice is like a whiplash. "It's done and it's final. Now sit down and stop making a fool of yourself."

He is so imperious, Myrcella thinks. Why do we always do what he says? What is this power he holds over our heads? What would happen if she got up right now, looked at him dead in the eye and said _'I won't_' same as she had seen Arianne de half a hundred times with her own father. Uncle Jamie had been able to do it too, he had stood up in front of Tywin Lannister the Immortal and said _no_! If he could do it, why not his the girl that came from his seed!

Myrcella sighed and looked at her plate. Why not indeed.

…the reason was simple: Jamie Lannister was Tywin's son and heir, the most fearsome swordsman in the seven Kingdoms. Nobody could actually _make_ him do anything. Fail all else, he could just run away and live by his sword anywhere in the world, because anywhere in the world people would kill each other and there was no shortage of work for a warrior. Myrcella on the other hand, had no such valuable attributes. She was just a girl with good breeding and a once pretty face who yielded no power but her wit. A single knight could knock her out and the next day she would be exactly where her grandfather told her to be.

"I heard Robb Stark was married to a Frey girl." Myrcella said with numb lips.

"She died of fever shortly after the birth and the child was a girl so he still needs an heir. You have bled, have you not?"

Myrcella bristled. Her mother's hiss of contained rage was loud in her ears as were her brother's eyes on her face.

"I have." Myrcella said and this time her voice was steadier.

"And you are a maid still, I should hope."

Myrcella's eyes snapped at her grandfather, nothing but contempt rolling in her gut. Instead she smiled at him, with just a little twist at one corner of her lips, and she knew whom she resembled right then.

"Does it matter?"

Her grandfather's eyebrow twitched at her impertinence but he gave no other reaction.

"I suppose it doesn't. Though you might be the worse for it, since northerners have a keen sense of honour, I am told."

Myrcella scoffed and reached for her glass, sipping the clear water as if it her wine in a manner that would really have made her mother proud if she were not so busy scowling at uncle Tyrion.

"He will have to swallow is honour long enough to wed Cercei Lannister's daughter. My not bleeding in the sheets for him will be the least of his issues."

Her grandfather's hand landing hard against the wood of the table drew the attention of all those in the room. Even Joffrey looked startled. Myrcella startled, but did not turn away from her plate though she knew it was at her that Tywin was directing his anger.

His anger…

She had made her grandfather _angry_. That was more of a accomplishment that many more capable men could boast.

Small victories, she thought snidely.

"Has the sun of Dorne softened your brain? You are a Princess of the Iron Throne." her grandfather's voice, that quiet vibrating rage in it, was the most dangerous sound she had heard in a while, and it made her shiver a little, but not much. There was nothing more to take. What could he possibly do to her that had not been done before?

"Am I? Many have wondered."

"Who has wondered? I want their names! I'll cut out their tongues!" Joffrey started, immediately on his feet, (keeping from rolling her eyes was all Myrcella could do at his outburst. _Gods, he's dull…_) but from the corner of her eyes, she saw her grandfather lift his hand and Joffrey fell silent.

_Neat trick_, she thought to herself, oddly dethatched. She knew she was pushing it, and the flash of warning in her uncle's eyes told her so, as did her mother's sudden flash of anger in her direction.

"Listen well, girl." her grandfather said flatly, much too controlled and subdued to be natural. "I have no patience for fools. You will do as you're bid."

"Of course I will." And she said it without even the barest hint of resentment of even irony. It was a fact. "I am a princess of the Iron Throne."

There was nothing in her tone that hinted at ridicule, but the truth was a silent mammoth in the room with them, and that very simple truth that they all knew – that Myrcella was as much a Baratheon as she was a Targaryen – was what turned her words into such an effective mockery. The silence that reigned was harsh enough to scrap at one's eardrums, but Myrcella didn't feel it. Inside her head, all was roaring, like an ocean in a storm.

And then it occurred to her…

"Have you told him that I am disfigured? Or am I going to have to suffer the humiliation of going to him and being rejected? " because being ridiculed was a given, that she did not even need to ask. When no answer came, she tried a different angle. "He may take it as a slight you know, that you are offering him a mutilated girl for a bride. That is not bound to go well."

She was discussing this with the incredible calm of the shell-shocked and she could tell that her cool head was almost in the verge of impressing upon her grandfather the fact of her existence - something that he had never seemed to take notice of before, other than obviously being aware of the fact that she had a cunt she could put to use.

"Your mark does not make you any less beautiful, Myrcella." uncle Tyrion said softly and Myrcella found herself looking at him before fixing her eyes on her grandfather.

"Kind of you to say so uncle." even though her voice was so utterly flat. "Regardless, has he been told or not?" she asked steadily, stubbornness showing in the edge of her voice. Her grandfather fixed steady eyes on her, cold, so cold, more so than any wolf's she so feared.

"He has." Tywin Lannister said, purpose behind is eyes. "He has made no objection on the matter."

"He's a wolf, what does he care what your face looks like? He'll fuck you like a dog his bitch and be done with you." Joffre's sneer was cold and cruel. "I'll ask him to bring me your head after you've whelped him an heir. I'm sure he'll have no qualms about it."

Myrcella had not even graced Joffrey with a look, let alone a response. She was still looking at her grandfather.

_And what of the fact that I'm a bastard born of incest? Does _that_ not bother him either? Or am I just going to my death pretending to be a bride?_

How she wanted to ask him that, how she wanted to say it to their faces, just once, aloud. But she was smarter than that, and more than anything else, she was a survivor… and that was the first moment since this dinner started that she remembered that her uncle (or was it _father?)_ was still in captivity somewhere out there, in Robb Stark's encampment.

"May I be excused?" Myrcella said to nobody in particular. Both her mother and her brother said a sound 'no', but it was her grandfather's wave of dismissal that she followed.

"You may."

"Sansa, care to join me for a walk? I feel some fresh air might do me good."

It was only when they were in Myrcella's chambers that she finally spoke. The question she asked however was silly. How would Sansa feel? The tears that ran over ivory cheeks were answer enough. And enough distraction too. Because Myrcella did not even want to think about the fate that awaited her. A captive yet again, no matter how much her mother raged or Joffrey screamed. She would be exchanged for peace and that was all good and well, but she would be hated and she would be hurt, there was no doubt about that in her mind. She even wondered if she should protest a little more, if she should raise a fuss. It was all going to amount to nothing more than strangled nerves on her part and irritation on her grandfather's, who would as always get his way. And she did not want to draw even more attention to herself than she already had. If there was one lesson on survival she had learned was that you live longer if you don't get seen.

ooo

In the depth of night, Myrcella expected the pressure in her chest to melt down to tears, same as it had when she had left for Dorne, but it did not. She felt strangely resigned to her fate. Perhaps it was because Sansa had been sleeping there, (and with good reason too - Joffrey had gone on a rampage after dinner, and looked for her everywhere. Stupid boy.) it was when she sighed for the uptenth time that she felt Sansa's light touch on her forearm and the redhead spoke for the first time since they had reached Myrcella's quarters hours ago.

"I know what you're thinking. But you don't have to worry about Robb hurting you." Sansa finally said, a soft whisper in the night that barely disturbed the silence, and though Myrcella could not see her face, the girl's eyes gleamed in the semidarkness, much like the wolf that was her house's sigil. It made Myrcella uneasy, her heart beating faster.

_You're being silly, Myr…_

"He is not that kind of man, your grace, he never has been."

Myrcella sighed heavily in the dark. "You know, before I saw it with my own eyes, I could have sworn the same thing about Joffrey." A cold sneer twisted her lips, and Myrcella knew who she looked like in that moment. "Sounds so silly now, doesn't it, but it's true. I could have said with a light heart that he had a temper and a vindictive streak in him, but that he would never take such insipid pleasure in cruelty as he does." And it was the truth, she would have. She had been stupid child, blind. (never had it crossed her mind that maybe she simply had not been afraid of her brother then, not even when he tried to frighten her.)

"Brothers are strange creatures Sansa. And you haven't seen yours in years."

And to that Sansa didn't reply. Because she knew as well as Myrcella did that Robb Stark had spent a god part of those years butchering men in battle. Who knew what kind of tastes he had acquired since his sweet sister last saw him. Myrcella shivered at the thought. Sansa didn't move her hand from her forearm though, despite the silence, and the gesture was meant to be comforting, but Myrcella didn't feel it. She was grateful, but it did not ease her. She did not sleep a wink that night.

o

TBC:::

1 Game of Thrones reference.


	2. Blood of winter

_2. Blood of winter_

_'Right now I want a word that describes the feeling that you get - a cold sick feeling, deep down inside - when you know something is happening that will change you, and you don't want it to, but you can't stop it. __And you know that there will now be a 'before' and an 'after', a 'was' and a 'will be'. And that you will never be the same person you were, ever again."_

_- Jennifer Donnelly, A Northern Light –_

The King of the North and the Trident wanted his sister by his side _sooner_ than as soon as possible, her uncle Tyrion said, and at this point it seemed that her grandfather had no objections since that meant sooner evacuation of northerners from the westerlands and sooner for the marriage that was supposed to unite their houses. Myrcella suspected that her grandfather wanted to keep Sansa at court under the pretence of her marrying a Lannister – and not just any but specifically her uncle Jamie - as long as it meant that they could keep something of the North under their claws and manes as assurance, so to speak. But that chance had past and gone, because if they dared, Robb Stark would fuck the westerlands to the seven hells, as uncle Tyrion had so tactfully put it.

It took them a fortnight to finalize the details for the marriage contract and another to make everything ready for the journey (Myrcella had never seen Sansa smiled so much so frequently). When Myrcella looked at the wagons that contained her belongings, she thought it strange how a whole life could fit in such a little space. There was one detail that she wanted to know though, but that she had to be prudent about asking. When her curiosity finally won over, Myrcella chose to ask uncle Tyrion instead of anyone else that would not answer.

"Is he going to support Joffrey's claim to the throne against Stanis?"

Uncle Tyrion had given her a careful look. He always looked at her this way when she asked something that hinted to her being slightly more than just a once-pretty face.

"No. But he won't fight _with_ Stanis either. He maintains that wars of succession in the south are none of his concern and that he is King in the North. What Joffrey does or does not with his realm is none of the northerners business and frankly, we like it that way."

Of course they did. King's Landing could withstand the attack on one army, but not two, especially not with the westerlands being bled dry and all the supply routes being cut off. Add to that the ever present danger of Dorne setting Highgarden on fire, as the Tyrells had been screaming about these last few months, and you had a '_true tactical headfuck on your hands_.' Though Myrcella had never heard that particular expression before, going from the drawn look on uncle Tyrion's face when he spoke of it, it had to be a painful thing.

"He's just hoping Stanis comes and burns us all to our bones isn't he?" She mumbled, lost in thought.

"Ah, but not you." Her uncle said, surprising her really, with the clear intent behind those words, as if their history stretched far and wide behind his eyes. as if he had been thinking them a long time. "Not you, because you will soon be a Stark of Winterfell, sweet girl."

Myrcella stared at her uncle, possibilities flying in her mind and when one of them dawned and her eyes showed her surprise, Tyrion smiled at her shock, at her speeding breath.

"You will have a good life up in the North I think." He said slowly. "At the very least, a life far away from here."

Myrcella could feel the tightening of her throat that always meant her voice would thicken with tears that never fell. She wants to ask if he's being purposefully slow, but she thinks it useless. Of course he is not. He knows all too well what a life lived in scorn is like. In the end, all she does is sigh tiredly.

"They'll hate me, you know they will. I'll be just as scorned as Sansa was here."

"Perhaps, at first. But you won't be harmed. The Starks are much better than we are in that respect – and Robb Stark is not Joffrey. You will be safe. Safer than here, at least."

Myrcella feels her breath calcifying in her lungs. She couldn't object to that: there were few places less safe than the Red keep some days… and that reminded her of another important thing that, try as she might, she could not seem to imprint on her mother's head hard enough.

"Uncle… You must promise me something." And she caught his hand, so small but strong, in her own. "You must promise that you will protect Tommen with everything you can. You've seen how Joffrey is with him." _and with me_… but that she doesn't say. By the look in his eyes, he probably already knows anyway.

"You know I will do all I can, sweet girl." Uncle Tyrion said calmly.

Myrcella nods. "I have tried to tell mother, but she…"

But Cercei Lannister was half blind when it came to her golden sun. Myrcella would rather think her mother that, than consider the possibility that maybe Cercei Lannister does not fund half the things her brother does so offensive. But Myrcella had always thought that the queen loved no one as she did her children… she'd always thought…

"When Jamie comes back, he'll be Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. He'll take care that Tommen is protected under someone that can be trusted. And when the siege comes… I will do my best." And uncle's best is most often than not good enough for everyone, because though most are too busy sneering at him to notice, he is a man with a formidable mind and a good heart… which is something of an oddity for a Lannister.

Myrcella nodded almost absentmindedly. She had had sir Aerys protecting her ever since she could remember. She had trusted him and in the end he had died doing his duty, that which he had sworn his life to: protecting her own. she owed him the breath that now flowed in her lungs and she was not likely to forget that, but out of all the Kingsguard, few were those like Sir Aerys…

Most of all though, Myrcella felt like she was clinging, grasping at straws of issues that she could do nothing about, if only so that she did not have to concern herself with herself… and her impending nuptials. It was easier to divert her attention to anything else, save for her own fate. Whenever she thought of it, she felt an immense sense of dread, and those few enough times she had voiced it (two in total – to Sansa that night, and to uncle Tyrion just now), those that wished to comfort her kept telling her that Robb Stark was not her brother, as if that was supposed to mean something. That was a lot of faith to put on one man; too much in fact, and that made her even more uncomfortable. She could not in good faith say that she had ever in her life met a man deserving of such trust - most of those men who people seemed to admire so were simply better liars than others. And Kings had a general tendency to be the worst of men.

ooo

Her mother had not come to see her off. She had come the night before, to hold her in a bruising embrace and whisper how much she loved her for the first time since Myrcella came back from Dorne, to be strong and to remember who she was: a lion and _'it's for lower beasts to fear you. Don't forget, never forget who you are.'_ Myrcella had held her mother just as tightly and bitten her tongue this one last time, because in the end she truly was her mother's daughter and she could not help the love she bore this unreachable woman who had birthed her; a love that endured beyond the flaws they both had, despite the temper and harness and grave mistakes. Tommen was harder to say goodbye to. They spent their last days together, and he was always holding her hand, looking at her as if she might vanish under his eyes. Gods, he must have been so lonely, she thought one day. More lonely than she ever had been in Dorne for she at least had created her own life there, somehow. But Tommen was so isolated… And he had not even had time to take joy in his sister being back before she was ripped from him again. He cried on the last day they spent together, even though he was considered by all too old for such a show of emotion. Myrcella loved him fiercer for it, held him tight and kissed his tears away, promising that she would do all in her power to come see him again, and that was no lie.

Not surprisingly, it was uncle Tyrion that was going to be their royal escort. At some point Joffrey had had the dazzling idea of coming himself… and when she'd heard Myrcella had laughed, though perhaps she should have cried. Who was going to hold the Mad King's muzzle when her grandfather died? Was the realm to burn after all? But those worries disappeared from her mind soon enough. It was none of her concern, as everyone was so quick to remind her always. Let those who made him deal with Joffrey. Myrcella on the other hand, had a different duty now.

Two princesses for peace and a kingslayer. It sounded fair, except, she was no more a princess than her brother was a King. Unlike Sansa, who was strong in the conviction that her family loved her and would fight for her till there was a breath in their bodies, Myrcella was just a bargaining chip on the side - given to close the deal and no one was more aware of that than she was.

ooo

Almost six years ago, when they had been riding towards Winterfell, Myrcella had heard Robert Baratheon say the words of the Starks were the only ones that were as true for any man living as they were for the family itself; that they were words that reminded everyone of the beginnings of the Starks out of the Long Night, and the grim importance of things to come for all men.

Winter is coming, the Starks said… and as the harsh wind slapping their faces silly with cold as they rode through the western planes, Myrcella _felt_ the truth of it. Uncle Tyrion cursed beside her and Myrcella looked at him with a smile. He looked thoroughly annoyed, as if the wind existed just to bother him, but he did wink at her from underneath his hood.

"Winter is coming huh?" Myrcella said as particularly hard wind picked up and made her shiver like a leaf. Sansa smiled at her fully, making it impossible not to smile back. "Tell me, dear soon-to-be goodsister, what does your family say when winter finally _gets_ here?"

Sansa laughed. "We say 'we told you so'1"

Myrcella laughed with her, for the first time in nearly a month.

ooo

Myrcella looked at herself in the stained mirror of the small inn they had stopped at last night to get one night of comfortable sleep and for a chance for the ladies to freshen up, as uncle Tyrion put it. This was the last day of their travel. Not even half a day really, they had already been sighted by northern scouts. So she undid her braid, combed through her curls with her fingers and then pulled all her hair over the left side of her face and braided it again, carefully making sure that her mutilated ear would be well covered. She had no wish to hide the scar on her cheek, it would be useless since one would have to be blind to miss it, but her ear… no, that one she wanted to hide. She was not ashamed of it, that is what she told herself, but she still didn't want anyone to see it.

The girl staring at her in the mirror is one that, for the first time in a while, is taking a very careful study at her ever feature. High cheekbones, round mouth. Pale gold in her hair, forest green in her eyes. A Lannister, twice. It was unmistakable. There was no way in which she could escape that. Eddard Stark himself had declared her and her brothers bastards born of incest and there was not one man in the North that would doubt his word, especially after he had lost his head over them. Lost his head by the hand of the woman to whom she bore an uncanny resemblance to.

Myrcella had never been a particularly vain creature. Everyone said that she was her mother's image come again and her mother was hailed as the most beautiful woman in the realm, but as for Myrcella, she liked her face for the very simple reason that it was the one that had greeted her ever morning on a mirror for the full six and ten years of her life. That scar on her cheek was just another piece of history, and while in Dorne she had never been made to care of the aesthetics of it. Obara was riddled with scars, Nymeria too, even Tyene had them and they were all proud of them, telling their stories to whoever listened. But here things were different, people were different. In the rest of westeros, there could be no creature considered more unlucky and an ugly woman.

Myrcella sighed. How she wished to be back and spend the rest of her days under the hot sun of Dorne. Instead, she was going to become Queen of Winter. Not for the first time, uncle Tyrion's voice found its way into her head: the gods are such vicious cunts, he whispered.

But then again Myrcella had stopped praying to the seven the day Trystane died, so she had no grounds to complain.

ooo

Sansa's tears fell the moment she saw her house's banners. Myrcella's eye caught the white and grey standard of the direwolf flapping in the wind and she knew who it was that was riding towards them at full gallop some few men riding behind him at a slower pace. Robb Stark stopped his horse with a quick move and had jumped down from it before the beast had yet found its peace. He had plucked Sansa from the saddle before she had the chance to get down herself.

It was a strange thing to hear Sansa sobbing in his arms with such white-hot desperation. She was always so quiet, so still. Always afraid of drawing eyes on herself. And yet, though Sansa was a woman grown – and had had looked it for years - she seemed a small child when her brother picked her up so she could wrap her arms around his neck, because there was no chance of her ever reaching all around him in full armour as he was. Robb Stark was a head taller than his sister and looked twice her size - and as she took that in, Myrcella felt her heart in her throat, immediately calculating in her mind how much a of a weight advantage he had on her and, as she noticed his wide palms as they held his sisters face and wiped her tears away, all Myrcella could think of was how much it would hurt if he did strike her.

'_Learn to like the pain'_ Obara used to say, right after some blow had doubled Myrcella over. _'It means you're still alive.'_

But right now the eldest Sand Snake was a distant memory, and the man standing in that clearing so tall and broad and imposing, was a stranger. Robb Stark was not the striking young man Myrcella remembered from Winterfell years ago. There was nothing of that boy left in him except for the colour of his hair, so uniquely trapped between the Tully red of his sister and the Stark's darkest brown. Even his eyes were not the same, she noted, as she swung down the saddle and lowered the hood of her cloak, so that she could greet him with her feet on the ground and her face in plain view. His eyes were still the bluest she had ever seen, but they were so cold, so _hard_ that they made her shiver, same as the winter wind had on the road. They fixed upon her with the steadiness of ice and all the weight of a barrage of rocks falling off the face of a mountain.

Myrcella curtsied low in front of him as one should only for a King, greeting with a clearly spoken _'Your grace'_, and stayed that way until he greeted her in return with a simple '_Princess'_ of acknowledgement.

"King in the North!" Her uncle called from the horse he had not dismounted, his usual smirk twisting his lips. "We meet again."

Myrcella almost flinched at her uncle's tone, but as Tyrion always said, being the Imp had certain advantages. Forgoing manners seemed to be the most recurrent one apparently.

"Aye, we do." Robb Stark finally spoke and he raised his hand to gesture to the riders behind him. One single horse was sent forward, and had it not been for those wide eyes of a green so thick it looked like summer grass, Myrcella would not have recognised her uncle at all. He wore his armour ill, as if it was not his own and his hair was a mane, his beard longer than she had ever seen it. When he finally did see her, his eyes flashed with awareness and shock that reverberated through him like a blow.

"When are we to expect the wedding, your grace?" Uncle Tyrion asked and Myrcella had eyes only for Jamie, the white knight, that looked scandalised enough that he was chewing on his tongue for the effort of not speaking. The King's eyes flickered to her for a moment before he turned to her uncle.

"Ravens will be sent to you when I reach Winterfell." The King replied. "The ceremony will be performed as soon as you are able to make it there."

"Then perhaps it would save time if I join you now." Her uncle tried but he had not even finished his sentences before the firmest '_No_' Myrcella had ever heard came from Robb Starks lips with the severity of a man that knew his own mind and that knew he did not need to raise his voice to be obeyed. It was the kind of 'no' that she had sometimes heard from Arianne, so full of self awareness, and from Prince Oberyn too those few times she had met him. It was the kind of 'no' her grandfather was a master in delivering. A King's order.

She saw her uncle was meaning to speak again then, saw the King urge his sister towards her horse once more as his riders spread out into formation again and she felt time slipping through her fingers. She was afraid, she was not ashamed of it. These moments were possibly the ones that were going to determine the rest of her life, but she could not… she could _not _go without…

"Your grace!" She called as clearly as she dared and was grateful for when the King's eyes found hers immediately, his brows only slightly furrowing. "May I please say goodbye?"

The King blinked once, as if it had not even occurred to him that she might want to, and then, so fast that she thought she had imagined it through the sheer force of will to see it there, something seemed to soften in his eyes. But it was gone so fast that Myrcella was left feeling afraid that she had overstepped the line already and that she would feel the brunt of it later. But it didn't matter. Who know if she would even see her uncles again? Who knew if she would even be alive long enough for a wedding. Life was ever harsh and never merciful. Anything could happen.

"Of course, Princess." The King said and he urged his riders at some distance. She felt uncle Jamie land from his horse almost before she turned to see him there in front of her. There was such anger in his eyes… but she could not help but take his hands and hold them, could not help the smile. She'd missed him. She knew it clearly as soon as she saw him. The anger she had accumulated disappeared, cowered by the notion that she might never see him again. And if it were so, then she would not want their last words spoken in anger. Anger didn't matter, it wouldn't make anything better.

It was a small wonder however, to see how quickly Jamie Lannister's temper faded the moment she took his hand, how suddenly there was longing in his face and how clearly she saw it, even though his beard and messy hair covered most of his expression.

"I can't say I'm surprised." He said finally and Myrcella smiled at him, because he was trying so hard to make he think he was still the same man.

"You shouldn't be." She said then with a smile, trying to lighten the mood. But there was no time. "I missed you, and I'll miss you more now even though you look awful," and that got a laugh out of him. "-and I'll write to you as often as I can." _If I can… _"And you must write to me, _both_ of you." She said turning to uncle Tyrion. "-because nobody else will."

"We'll write, sweet girl." Uncle Trion said softly.

"Whose head am I to have for doing _this_ to you?" uncle Jamie finally found the nerve to ask, his thumb tracing the line of her scar, his voice was so soft that her heart broke for him… and because she would never get the chance to call him father, ever.

"That dept has been paid." She said, thinking about the Darkstar's corpse rotting in the desert. "Uncle Tyrion will explain. Will they let you be at my wedding?" and now she had tears in her eyes and in her voice.

Uncle Jamie snorted, as if the answer was obvious, even though his eyes too were shining. "I won't miss it for the world."

She rolled her eyes with a half smile. "If mother tries to send me a red gown, _stop _her." She said then (another smile, this one she would remember because it was the teasing one that had always been Jamie's as far back as Myrcella could remember) and reached up to tug his head down so she could kiss his forehead the way she always used to when she was a child. He was not a giant anymore though. Then she took her uncle Tyrion's hand and kissed it too, holding it tightly before letting go ('_Don't forget your promise uncle, please, because nobody else will remember'_), and then she was on her horse and galloping forward, and not once did she look back.

ooo

Myrcella stayed back and watched as Lady Stark cried and cried as she held her daughter, a lanky girl with the short hair and fierce eyes standing close by. The girl that Myrcella had thought looked awkward as a child, now looked dangerous as a woman: Arya Stark was not in a dress but in boiled leathers, with a thin sword strapped of her hip, a bow and a quiver full of arrows on her back. Her eyes singed like hot steel when they fell on Myrcella's face. Arya Stark had the kind of beauty sharp swords did: cold and lethal. Myrcella knew the kind of violence the girl regarded her with; she'd faced it before and she was too weathered in it now to be afraid as she had once been when face with such reckless hate. But no matter what feelings Myrcella's face invoked in the girl, Arya Stark still embraced her sister tightly when Sansa practically threw herself at her with a strangled cry of '_Oh gods, I thought you were dead!_' over and over.

The King stayed with his family for a moment more before turning towards Myrcella. Unlike his little sister, there was no immediate dislike in his eyes, but then again, Myrcella could not see anything else in them either. His face was hard and unchanging, as cold as if his expression was carved ins tone and there seemed to be nothing beneath the frosty-flue of his eyes, no flicker of emotion to guide her reaction. For a moment she tried to imagine what it would be like to spend a whole lifetime with a man that felt nothing but distain for her, or at best, cold disregard…

'_I don't belong here'_ was too little a phase to encompass the enormity of the displacement Myrcella felt in that moment.

"Princess, I have had a tent set up for you and my sister. I advise you get some hours worth of rest, we'll be marching as soon as we're able." He spoke looking at her with the unnerving steadiness of a stranger.

Myrcella takes deep breaths as he talks, inclines her head forward and says _'thank you, your grace'_ when he's done... and tries not to think of how cold his eyes are, or how his mouth looks like one that never smiles and that the shape of his jaw hints at more than just stubbornness. She does her honest best not to dwell on the memory of Trystane who was all warmth and laughter and kindness. Her best is not enough because she still feels the familiar sting of tears behind her eyes.

But Myrcella is not alarmed; she knows she won't cry. She just blinks a couple of times, takes a deep breath and then dares even a long look around herself, taking in the many faces of men of war. Some stare at her openly, their distain as flat and direct as Arya Stark's was. Some even look upon her with a plain and simple hatred. No big surprise, that, she had expected it, but it was different to be surrounded by some one hundred men that wanted nothing better than to wet the cold ground with her blood.

Myrcella sighed… if it were not for their colouring and the cold weather, then she might as well be back in Dorne, except now she was old enough to understand what those kind of stares meant. It did not escape her that the King paid her the least attention possible within the bounds of strict cordiality. In her heart of hearts, she could not blame him. He was to marry the daughter of the most reviled queen in the history of Westeros, the sister of the boy-King that had cut off his father's head… a girl that had her mother's face. She was a taunt in the face of all he had lost, and as she thought of it that way, she could easily imagine her grandfather sitting somewhere in a chair, smiling at the thought of her becoming her mother's daughter in every way and making Robb Stark's life a living hell, just as Cercei had so often strived to do with Robert Baratheon.

No, Myrcella did not blame the King at all, but she had herself to think about. Nobody else was going to see to her comfort, she had no time to waste her concern on a King who, apparently, could not stand to look at her too long.

That was precisely the moment when Sansa chose to turn to her with a tearful smile and to Myrcella's great surprise (so much so that she actually showed it) the elder Princess of the North took her hand and tugged her to her remaining family.

"Mother, Arya… allow me to present princess Myrcella to you." She said with enthusiasm in her voice that to Myrcella was completely foreign. Two pair of eyes fixed on her and Myrcella felt the hair on her arms prickle, the way they always did when she was aware that someone was looking at her with sharp intent. But Sansa was not done, indeed she had not even let go of Myrcella's hand.

"She was of great comfort to me when I was held in the Red Keep." Sansa said, smiling at Myrcella's so obvious shock at her words. And Myrcella was sure Sansa knew exactly what she was doing… and she was doing it anyway. Myrcella could not say anything in return, sure that she had never been a true friend to anyone before, and yet she was being shown the meaning of it now, by the same girl that her family had tortured slowly for years.

Shame prickled at the back of her spine.

"You're too kind, your grace." She said softly, meaning it, in a tone meant only for Sansa and nobody else.

"I thought that the Princess had been fostered in Dorne since she was a child and that she was returned some six months ago." Lady Catelyn pointed out, her tone as polite as her eyes brimmed disdain. Myrcella met the other woman's eyes steadily, needing to see whom her enemy was to be now and how was the best tactic to survive it.

"Your grace is correct. As I said, princess Sansa was being generous."

Catelyn Stark regarded her for a moment with intelligent eyes and Myrcella tried to show neither weakness nor pride. She tried to show a princess with courtly manners, remembering the way Sansa had always behaved in the face of sharp scrutiny.

"How'd you get that scar?" Arya's asked then with a complete nonchalance that didn't surprise Myrcella one bit - the defiance was in the girls very breath, even in the challenge in her tone when she spoke.

"_Arya_!" her mother and Sansa chastised immediately, their tone of voice so similar that it was a wonder. The three women looked at each other for a moment and then, in the same moment, they started laughing at some secret jest between them that Myrcella was utterly out of.

"Some things never change do they?" Sansa said, but she said it as if it was the most wonderful thing on earth. Myrcella didn't understand it, but she could not deny that the way both mother and daughters smiled at each other, ever so softly, was pleasant to look at. When they looked at each other, they saw family and the feeling showed in their faces… and it melted like new snow when their eyes fell on her. Lady Catlin sighed turning to Myrcella with a look on her face that might have been called resigned. "Come then. Let's get you into some warmer clothes. You both looked chilled."

Sansa smiled at her and Myrcella tried to smile back, but she was sure her expression was not so convincing. Arya Stark kept a pace behind her, eyeing her back like it was her target practice, no doubt, countless eyes following their walk… and that was when Myrcella understood how her life in the north was going to be like even ten years from now: even if she did manage to be not-so-hated, even if they learned to live with her presence, to tolerate her, that was as far as she could ever got to anyone's heard in this Kingdom. She would forever be the outsider, never their kin. She would be ever lonely here.

The sudden realization of this very simple truth hit her with the strength of a blow and she felt the blood drain from her face. She had never been truly alone in her life… she was afraid of it.

ooo

When Myrcella found herself looking upon the northern army camp, she felt the suddenness of her reaction betrayed her feelings in a moment where they should not have, because she knew she was being watched from all sides. But being still and calm in a middle of a sea of men… literally, a sea of them, she was in a valley, and could not see the ending of the encampment – it made her taste fear for the very first time. How _many_ were there?

She looked over, searching for banners, wanting to know who they were, but the colon was moving so fast, straight into the heart of the camp and she did not have the time to take it all in. They were families of the north, Stark bannermen, and there were others as well. Riverlords perhaps. She caught the standard of the Twins somewhere, and even the sun and spear of Dorne.

"We could have burned it all to the ground, you know."

Myrcella turned to meet Arya Stark's cold-steel eyes… and felt something in her respond to the strength with which she was being hated in that moment. She felt her insides pull together, tense, as they always did when she was coiling for a fight.

_'Always fight like the next one will be your last breath, _she used to say_, because it might very well be.' _

But Obara had always been too vengeful, too violent, too blunt. This girl to whom Myrcella was talking to now was just a girl who hated her face - and she was the sister of the man she was to marry. So Myrcella kept her face schooled and expression flat.

"We could have burned Lannisport to the ground, taken the Rock and razed it down."

"Then I am glad the King chose to show mercy on the people of the westerlands."

Arya Stark snorted. "T'was no mercy, _Lannister_." A name spit out with so much vile it was already an insult. "It was tactics. Just like you are."

Myrcella regarded that in her head, calculated the many responses she could give, before settling for the only one that Arya Stark was likely to understand.

"I know." She said, pronouncing it clearly, without distain or anything else. A simple fact for both of them to acknowledge.

The silence stretched a bit longer, long enough for them to dismount and walk a little beside the King as he spoke to his mother and kissed Sansa's forehead.

"I'm going to kill your brother one day."

The voice was close and not low enough to be considered a whisper. Arya Stark obviously didn't care about such things. Myrcella could only stare at the wolf girl in a mix of wonder and amusement, unable to decide which was she wanted to go for a moment.

"I'm going to kill your mother too. I swore it. And I'll do it." Arya Stark continued, with a voice that boiled with conviction, of hate, the thread of violence laced in it like a scent. Myrcella did not doubt it for a moment that Arya Stark was capable of bringing death. She sounded like killers Myrcella had met before sounded, but what she spoke of was… was so _commonplace_ really. How many men and women, Myrcella wondered, had sworn the same thing, over and over again? She was sure there had to be an abundance of them, somewhere in this world or (more probably) in the next. Men and women whose lives the Lannister Queen had ruined, had sworn to kill her in innumerable ways… and yet there she stood, upon her throne.

And where were those people now?

"You will have quite a bit of competition there, I'm afraid, but I wish you well on your endeavours all the same. May you act wisely and may justice guide your hand." Myrcella said pleasantly, as if she had not been just sworn death and blood of her kin. Arya sneered at her response.

"Justice, yes. For my father and my brother." There was a moment of silence, and then a snort. "Lannisters. You people don't love anyone but yourselves do you?"

Myrcella felt the spark of annoyance for the first time since the girl had started to speak. She turned to her and met her eyes, not fire for fire, but bloodlust with cool indifference, because she knew Arya Stark's kind – or at least, she knew the kind of hatred Arya felt. She had learned long since how to deal with those kind of people.

"And if you think this is the first time someone threatens to kill my brother or mother, you are more naïve than I thought you to be, princess." She said calmly, placidly almost.

The fury in Arya's eyes made her peel back those lips and show teeth like a wolf showed fangs. "Don't you call me that! I'm no _princess_!"

Myrcella inclined her head. "As you wish."

Sansa's voice interrupted them. "Arya, stop it, you're causing a scene."

As Sansa linked their arms together with a smile and pulled her to their tents, Myrcella thought back at Arya Starks snarling face. Well, she decided, at least the girl was honest about her feelings. It could have been worse. It could have been that she was cunning and conniving and a liar and a sneak, and that would have been a real problem. But this kind of anger, this Myrcella could handle. Unless of course the girl decided to shoot her full of arrows or cut her throat in her sleep.

Myrcella closed her eyes and took a steadying breath. She honestly hoped that Arya Stark had a bit more sense than that. A bit more sense than Joffrey, who went and cut off Ned Stark's head and plunged the kingdoms into war and devastation. Because that's what would happen again if she died among these people, Myrcella knew that. Her mother would not rest until she had burned the whole North down if Myrcella made the mistake of getting herself killed here. Which was what made dying an unacceptable option, and Arya Stark would have to learn to live with that.

ooo

Myrcella slept fitfully under the pressure of what felt like a ton of heavy furs, and when she woke she felt her bones aching, as if she had been crushed under her bedclothes. But when she did wake and saw the way Sansa and her mother, and Arya too, were sleeping, she felt the bite of sadness in her breast. They were cocooned together, holding each other in their sleep, as she and Tomen used to do in King's Landing when they were children. These people, Myrcella thought, were not bad people, were they? They were just family… a powerful family, yes, but family none the less.

But then again, she should know better by now. She should know that blood means nothing and ironically enough, the proof of it are the Lannisters themselves, who are said to love none but their own. The Lannisters are family And they all _hate_ each other…

What would it be like for her with these people up in the frozen north? What would it be like for her children? Would babies that came from her body be as loved as Sansa Stark seemed to be? Myrcella felt her hands close into fists and the spark of anger. She would not let anyone harm any child that came from her, of that she was certain! And then of course she realized she was being stupid and thinking far too much ahead. Before she planned the future of her offsprings, she should perhaps try to have a full conversation with their would-be father, preferably one that involved more than a few words spoke out of courtesy.

She got up and started dressing herself with as much quiet as she could, not to wake up her tent-mates. In her mind, she was revisiting for the hundredth time the episode of last night, when she had waited for the camp to calm and the hour to be late before she snuck out of her tent and, with the heavy box of polished dark wood in her arms, headed for the King's tent, trying not to be seen… or at least, to be seen by as few as possible. She had been so scared, hands trembling even though her step was sure. Sansa had offered to accompany her, but in the end she had decided against it, to Myrcella disappointment. She said that it would be better if Myrcella did this alone, and Myrcella could understand why that was a wise decision, but the comfort of a familiar presence would have been a relief indeed. Instead, she was alone…

The guards had stopped her at the entrance of the royal tent and that she had predicted. They didn't recognise her face, but when she lowered the hood of her cloak, they did recognize her, and they scowled.

"How may we be of assistance, your grace?" one of them asked, and it was so clear that he'd rather call her bastard than anything else that Myrcella was likely to smile at his transparency – but she was no idiot.

"I would have a word with the King, if he allow me." she said carefully, taking the decision out of his hands.

"The King has retired for the night."

As if she did not know that. "I assure you, he will want to hear me. …I have something to deliver to him."

"Gifts can wait till morning." The other guard said gruffly, eyeing her with distain and did not even spare her the leering sneer on his face as he took her in from head to toe.

"It's not a gift, sir. And I think the king would like to decide for himself." Myrcella said and this time she could not keep the steel from her voice as hard as she tried. She _hated_ it when men regarded her with ownership they had no right to feel, and she hated it even more that this soldier who was, at best, a son of some noble house, eyed her like she was a whore in a tavern because he felt he could do so without impunity.

The guards regarded her carefully then, and after a moment, with a stern eye, took in what she was carrying in her arms. No doubt she thought that perhaps she was there to kill their King or something as preposterously stupid as that. She was a Lannister after all, nothing could be beneath her. But in the end the truth of it was that a guard, even a royal one, could not take decisions that the King would better like to have taken himself, and for all these soldiers knew, the King could not afford to offend her too tremendously, since she was the one link to the stability of their realms. The reality of it was different, but Myrcella would not be the one to explain that to him. A moment later, the soldier returned and the tent flap was held open for her to go in… and in she went.

The King's tent was much wider than that of his mother and sisters, and curtains separated his private area from that that served as general quarters of his army, where he held meetings with his generals and captains. It seemed cosy enough, as warm as any tent could be, clean and fit a commander, but it was also bare of anything that was not strictly needed - and that told her much about the character of the man inhabiting it. The King was not one for lavish fineries it seemed. Myrcella ran her eyes around herself, looking for the King and when she found him standing almost behind her, she swallowed down the lump in her throat and curtsied.

"Your grace."

A moment passed.

"Princess."

She stood up straight and looked at him. _He is not going to ask you what you want here_, she thought as she took in his hard face, so hard and unmoving that it seemed his features were set in stone (thank the gods or whatever had had mercy on her fate, he was not as big as he had looked with his armour on, though he was still tall and his shoulders were still wide enough to mean strength). Myrcella stepped forward and put the box she had been carrying on the table where all his maps were. Her arms had been aching from the weight of it.

"I wanted to return this to you." Myrcella said as she did so, trying to resist the urge to look anywhere but in his eyes, (no matter how sharp and cold they were as he tried to drill through her thoughts) because it was in his eyes she _had_ to look since she firmly believed that deference was one thing, while weakness was another. When he said nothing, Myrcella lifted the top of the dark wooden box and allowed him to see what was on the inside of it. It was not snakes or some poison or other. Just a sword. And when he saw it, she saw a true response from him and was thankful that he was able to feel something – _anything_ – that was not mistrust or frosty distain. His eyes as he regarded her now were even darker though, and his frown spoke of confusion, as well as suspicion. He did not trust her one single bit, Myrcella realized and probably never would.

Well then, she would have to earn it. And he would have to learn to give in a little. In time.

"You grandfather made it very clear that my father's sword had been lost." The King said, and it was just as clear from his tone that he had not believed it for a moment. Myrcella said nothing, because there was nothing she could say that would be to her advantage here.

"Am I to consider this as his wedding gift to me?" and the tone was even harsher, mocking the idea for its arrogance, its presumptuousness.

Myrcella took a deep steadying breath.

"No one can present as a gift something that already belongs to you, your grace." she said calmly, though she betrayed herself when she looked down to her feet at his words - because that had been precisely her grandfather's intent. At first he had had no intention of returning the thing at all, but somehow (only the gods knew how) uncle Tyrion had convinced him to do it. But grandfather Tywin had wanted Myrcella to give this sword back to the King at their wedding feast, in front of all his bannermen so that all could see that _she_ was the one to return the lost heirloom where it belonged. That the North was a _concession, _an allowance of the crown, and not a right earned in blood. Myrcella had seen her mother's sneer when she had been told what to do, as clearly as she had seen the disapproval in uncle Tyrion's eyes. And when Myrcella had spoke to her uncle about this on the road and presented her own idea, he had smiled and called her a smart girl, as he always used to do when she he particularly enjoyed the fruit of her wit.

Myrcella startled and it was all she could do not to take a step back, when she saw that the King was much closer to her than she had expected… though not for _her_, but for the sword. He picked it up from its confines and took it out of its sheath in one fluid move, held it in his hands as if it weighted nothing more than a feather, even though the thing was so long that the hilt of it came up to Myrcella's chin. She had never seen it this close before really, never dared. Now she watched the look on the King's face as he too examined it, the emotion that seemed to melt the frost from his eyes when his gaze turned inwards.

What was he thinking about, she wondered. Was it his father's memory in his mind?

The King put the sword back into its scabbard and turned to her. He was much more composed when he watched her, but the steel she had felt today when he looked at her was not there now.

"Thank you." He said simply, and Myrcella bowed her head to him, just as simply. But she knew that she could no longer leave without begging to be excused as she was used to… just as well as she knew that if she stayed any longer there would be rumours flying in the morning of her being a whore, as well as a bastard.

"May I take my leave, your grace?" she asked then carefully, when he said nothing to her for several moments. Again, his dark brows pulled together by a small fraction, a thin line of confusion arrowing in his eyes, before he replied.

"You may, if you wish."

Myrcella felt herself in a difficult situation all of a sudden. Was this a trap? Did he want her to stay? She rebelled from the very core of herself at the thought. She may dread him, but she would not be made his whore, not without a fight. And he would be surprised at how much of a fight she was capable of.

"I fear it would be improper, your grace, to stay any longer in your tent without an chaperone." _In the middle of the night… _but she did not add that.

She watched understanding dawn in his eyes, as if the idea had not occurred to him at all. (And why should it? Men didn't suffer from ill rumours as women did, and he did not care about her honour, because he probably thought she had none.) But she did not see the annoyance she expected. He looked away from her for a moment, as if… well if it had been anyone else, Myrcella would have thought him embarrassed at his own slip, but this was the King of Winter and though Myrcella knew him for but a day, he had not struck her as a man to ever get embarrassed about anything.

"Of course." He said then, nodding firmly. But after a moment he opened his mouth again, and closed it, looking… unsure, for the very first time since she had met him that morning. Myrcella admitted that she would have liked nothing better than to leave his presence (her heart had been flying ever since she entered this tent and she could already feel the cold sweat start to bother her underneath her dress) but she could not very well leave when it was obvious that the King had something to say.

"Are your accommodations to your liking?" he asked then… and Myrcella blinked twice, as stunned to hear those words as he seemed to be to have said them. Suddenly the awkwardness between them that had taken the place of the hard tension of a moment ago, seemed ridiculous. He was just trying to be courteous, was he not? Wasn't that expected?

Myrcella had to be honest with herself: no, she had not expected it. She had expected a great deal of things, and none of them were of the pleasant kind. It was why she dreaded him, why she measured every look, every step, every _breath,_ in his presence. She had been steeling herself for awful things, telling herself those were expected. Not this. Strange was it not, that things that should have been quite normal between two people, sounded so extraordinary in their situation. Perhaps that was because their situation was extraordinary in itself, and therefore normal things did not fit comfortably between them. She had never expected the ordinary from this… and perhaps neither had he. But that did not mean she could not accept it graciously.

"I am very comfortable, your grace. Thank you." Myrcella said, a little too softly perhaps, trying to smile and not daring to sound too much of anything. Sansa, dear sweet Sansa, had made sure that she had the warmest clothes and the most comfortable bed as possible, in such a large display of compassion that had she not been how she was, Myrcella would have been reduced to tears.

One single gesture of kindness meant the world it seemed, when none was expected.

"I'm glad." He said, the word sounding strange from his lips. "Goodnight then, princess."

"Goodnight to you, your grace."

And she left, pulling her hood up before she exited the tent completely and returned to her own tent. She hoped that he understood what she had done, and why she had done it this way and not another, with the dark covering her and nobody there to witness the moment between them. She had taken a great risk on her person by presuming to know the best way of action and she could only hope that he would be able to see this as a peace offering - not between their families, but between themselves… an offering of good will, if nothing else, and that if it was true that this King was as good a King (and a man) as they said he was, then she wished to win his regard at least.

She had smiled at Sansa when the princess asked her how it went, and told her that her brother was polite and spoke to her kindly, even though that was a stretch of the truth. Sansa had smiled and it had been relief Myrcella had seen in her eyes. Apparently even Sansa had her own doubts when it came to her brother, and Myrcella thought it a bit sad really, how little they both seemed to trust men, just because they had had the misfortune of being subjected to her brother's fickleness.

She looked over at the princess now as she slept, between her mother and her sister; smiled at how harmless and how very young Arya Stark seemed in her sleep. Everyone is so much happier when they chose not to remember anything, she thought. But she also knew that was not the northern way. The North remembers, they said, and Myrcella wondered if it was possible sometimes to remember too much. She dismissed her thought with a shake of her head, breathed deep and stepped out of the tent silently. She was in a good mood today even though se he had slept fitfully, and she knew why that was. Myrcella was no fool to give away all the measure of her trust for one polite word, but she had to admit that she was also immensely relieved that the King was capable of it, when it came to her. It reassured her that there might be something she could build on, even if all there was to be between them was distant courtesy. But distant courtesy sounded magnificent, when compared to all the other things she had imagined. And even though this was just a faint hope, it was still better than nothing.

ooo

Unfortunately for Myrcella, her good mood evaporated immediately when she caught sight of the two soldiers dressed in Lannister armour just outside her tent. She froze, her heart skipping a beat as she turned to look at them fully in the face, aware that whoever was awake and within sighting distance of her was looking at her. She need not be a witch to know the kind of thoughts that were running through their heads.

"Who are you?" she asked, turning to them with a frown, not trying to hide her feelings.

"We are to be your guards, Princess." One of them said and Myrcella felt her anger start to rise. And she had been in such a good mood too…

"By whose order are you to be my guards?"

It would have been a cruel joke indeed if the King had dressed them this way and ordered them to follow her about. At her question, the two men looked at each other and then back at her.

"King Joffrey and the Queen Regent, your grace."

Myrcella raised an eyebrow at them. She should have known, this had Joffrey written all over it. Or rather, his stupidity and brutal intent.

"And was it, by any chance, part King Joffrey's order that you guard me while wearing this ridiculous getup?" She asked, as she pointed towards their armour. It was obvious from the look they shared that her brother had done precisely so, and Myrcella could not help but be a little sorry for them. It was not their fault that their King was the kind of moron to want to cause his sister harm even when she was a hundred miles away from him.

Myrcella sighed. "Go find yourselves a more appropriate armour, or I will find myself new guards." She said simply, but firmly enough to let them know she meant every word, before turning to leave.

"Forgive me, your grace, but the King gave us an order and we cannot…"

Myrcella felt her blood boil, but she kept her tone to an even whisper lined with hot steel.

"The only _King_ north of the Neck is Robb Stark, and you two are in the middle of his army. Ten thousand northerners who at the sight of that pretty red armour, would like nothing better than to open you up from balls to brains and see how pretty you bleed. " She said harshly at the two before her, even though she knew they were not so much at fault here. "So unless you want to find yourselves victims of some unfortunate accident before I even have the chance to dismiss you from my service, find yourselves an armour more appropriate to your current situation."

Both men were startled by her tone and the words she chose, but they could not very well disobey her openly since she was by all accounts their liege lady, so they both bowed they heads and took their leave. Myrcella sighed and closed her eyes. This was not going to be easy, and she had known that from the beginning, but she had not expected people where were not even there to make it quite so difficult either.

"Your grace, good morning."

Myrcella turned at the voice and saw a woman standing there, dressed in full armour and looking at her with wide almond-shaped eyes.

"Good morning to you my lady." Myrcella said, not knowing how else to address this stranger.

"My name is Dacey of house Mormont, your grace. The King would like a word."

Myrcella nodded and even smiled a little. Of course she was of house Mormont. Myrcella had heard about warrior women of Bear Island. And she had heard of Dacey too, even all the way in Dorne. She had heard that she was beautiful and that she was fierce - and now that they had met, Myrcella agreed on the first and could easily believe the second.

"I am glad to make your acquaintance, lady Mormont." Myrcella said as they walked. She smiled at the other woman when their eyes met. "Your bravery and prowess in battle is known even as far as Dorne. Obara Sand always told me she would like to measure her strength against yours one day."

Dacey turned to look at her, amusement in those light brown eyes that seemed almost golden when the light hit them right.

"Obara Sand, the first of the Sand Snakes?"

Myrcella's smile grew. "Yes, the same. You've heard of her?"

Dacey chuckled low. "Aye, I've heard of her. She's a right hammerhead, that one."

But there was amusement in Dacey's eyes and warmth in her tone, the kind that follows familiarity, and Myrcella wanted to ask lady Mormont if they had met, if perhaps Obara had followed her father's army – it sounded so like her that Myrcella did not doubt it for a second, now that she thought of it – but they were too close to the King's tent and there was no time for a conversation.

"She has her moments, yes." Myrcella said instead, smiling as she remembered. "But she admires you. And so do I."

Dacey nodded her thanks as she held open the flap of the King's tent for Myrcella to pass through.

The King was busy speaking to several of his men, one of them at his right was as the tallest, biggest man Myrcella had ever seen aside from the Mountain… and she was terrified of the Mountain. They all looked up when she came in and, as always, Myrcella curtsied in front of them all.

"Your grace, my lords. Good morning."

She noted the look in their eyes when they took her in, the stiffness in their necks when they bowed their heads, eyes never leaving her as if she was a snake in their midst. These were among her betrothed's most loyal bannermen, soon to be _her_ bannermen too… and Myrcella had to find some way to win them over, even slightly. At the moment that possibility was cosily cooped up right next to the impossible. Myrcella idly wondered if the position of their King had faltered in their eyes, ever since they learned that he was to marry their enemy's daughter 8difficult as that may be, since Robb Stark seemed to be the closest thing to a god in his men's eyes). But then again, she supposed that after a war so long and hard, they would welcome any chance for peace, even if it involved a bastard princess.

"Princess, your men reached us this morning, with your belongings. I was told that there are several knights assigned to be your guards."

Myrcella frowned at that. Several? What did _that_ mean, she asked herself with trepidation. But the King was not yet done, and the worst of it was that she could not tell, from his eyes or his tone, what he made of this.

"You are free to keep them all under your service as you best see fit of course, but I council you against a large guard."

And Myrcella understood why perfectly. She'd look like a right fool and she'd be ridiculed at best, and hated even more at worst. What in the seven hells had her mother been thinking? Or was this Joffrey's doing? Why had grandfather not stopped them?

"I was not aware of such measures, your grace." Myrcella said carefully, trying to keep her voice as steady as she could. "With your permission, I'd rather send the lot of them back to King's Landing."

She noticed the surprise in his eyes, thought she didn't dare look away from him to measure the lords beside him. She was gambling a great deal here… or nothing at all, depending on how one chose to look at it. If the King gave the order for her not to be harmed under any circumstance, she doubted there would be those that chose to go against it, especially since she was almost all the time with the royal family. And if the King wished to harm her, then there was nothing a whole guard could do to stop it, much less one or two knights.

"You don't see the need to have a sworn shied?" the King asked, regarding her carefully.

She had not had a sworn shied since ser Aerys had died. She had not wanted one, though there had been the opportunity.

"We are travelling in the middle of your army, your grace. I doubt I can be better protected than that."

The smile he gave her was the first one he had ever directed at her. It was lopsided and didn't reach his eyes, but there was amusement in them all the same, because he knew _exactly_ what she was doing, what she was saying without speaking. It was in that moment that for the very first time she felt a connection with him: in that moment they were thinking the same thing, and it was that kind of harmony that made her think perhaps he also understood that she was putting herself entirely on his hands and depending on whatever kindness he chose to show her… or not show her. It went without saying that this was a step she was taking in his direction, and unfortunately she was taking it completely blind, without knowing whether he would be willing to make one of his own towards her, or be what she feared him to be, and bite at her exposed neck, so to speak, like a true wolf would.

"That is true, but I would still feel more at ease knowing there is someone guarding you against what cannot be predicted. Lady Mormont was the shied I had in mind. She is part of my private guard and a fierce warrior. You'd be guarded well." The way he spoke it made her think as if it was an open question. As if he was waiting to see what her opinion on the matter was. Myrcella smiled internally, thinking about it. The illusion of a choice was sometimes as sweet as any kindness. But this was one of those rare cases where that did not matter, because Myrcella was perfectly happy with the option that was presented to her. In fact, she could not help the smile as she looked at the lady who had all this time been standing to her right, tall and proud.

"I have heard nothing but the best praise for the warrior women of house Mormont." Myrcella said looking at the King and then turning to the Lady in question, who inclined her head in Myrcella's direction. "I would be honoured to have you as my protector, my lady." She said and hoped that all could see that she meant it.

"Then it is settled. In the mean time, I advise you council the men under your command to be a little less conspicuous, princess. It would make their time here easier." The King said, and Myrcella turned wide eyes to him, thoroughly surprised – though she should not have been. She could feel the blush that was heating her cheeks to a fierce red. Her face burned and she could not help looking down.

"I have already done so, your grace." Myrcella said flatly, harshly telling herself to _look up, look him in the eye_! "I beg your pardon, on their account."

"You beg his pardon for their disrespect, or for their indecency?" a new voice asked, gruff and loud. She met the eyes of the man that had seemed to her like half a giant… and saw humour in them, mixed with the distaste he felt as he looked at her.

Myrcella held his eyes steadily as she spoke. "For both, my Lord."

"They should be honoured to serve a lady generous enough to sacrifice her pride for theirs. Thank you for your time, Princess." The King said - stopping whatever the lord at his side had been about to say with a stern glance his way - and it was as gentle a dismissal as any. Myrcella curtsied, wished them a good day and then retired out of that tent – and it was only then that she was able to take a full breath at last.

ooo

It came sooner than she expected it to, the day that Myrcella thought would be her last - not even a fortnight after she had joined the northern armies.

She admitted that she had been curious, in an unhealthy sort of way, about the wolf that the whole court in Kings Landing had been terrified about, and that everyone in Dorne spoke of as if it as a lie that had been made up by the northerners themselves. Myrcella knew that the direwolves themselves were no lie – she remembered them from the visit north, years ago. Remembered Lady, who had belonged to Sansa, and Nymeria, Arya's wolf. She remembered Sansa's sleepless night and the rivers of tears she had cried when her wolf had to be put down. But, though Myrcella knew the wolf was real, she thought the rumours about its size and qualities had been greatly exaggerated. Some people said it was as big as any horse, others that it had eyes red as blood, and fur as black as night. Some even said that his fur was made of steel! Myrcella did not remember the King's wolf from when she was in Winterfell that well, but she doubted it was as horrific as that – if it had been, she would have remembered it.

When she had asked Dacey about it, the lady told Myrcella that the animal was very much real though not with steel fur (Dacey had laughed at that). The King called him Greywind because of the colour of his pelt, and he really was almost as big as a horse, the difference being negligible, seeing that a wolf of his size made a terrifying sight even without those inches more. The king did not ride the animal into battle apparently, but Greywind did as much damage as ten men, and there was no guard more loyal, or more trustworthy.

"You don't sound afraid of him." Myrcella noted, as they rode side by side. Dacey smiled good-naturally.

"I am not. I have seen that beast tear men apart like they were nothing, but he has saved my life more than once; and he has never once attacked one of our soldiers, not in all these years . Besides, Greywind obeys the King unfailingly and I trust my King."

At Myrcella look of confusion, Dacey had shrugged vaguely. "Nobody knows the real nature of their bond, but it's clear that runs deep. A direwolf could never be a pet, and yet the understanding between the Starks and their wolves is…" Dacey paused, and it seemed to Myrcella that she was trying to find a right word and failing. "-well, it's like nothing I've ever seen, your grace." Dacey finally said.

The stuff of legends, Myrcella thought in the privacy of her head. That is what Robert Baratheon had told her one: the Starks were shrouded in mystery that came right out of the pages of a dusty book. But this was no fantasy. Robb Stark was very much real and apparently, so was his direwolf.

"I heard people say that they are one. That the King's wolf can even tell when someone means him harm just by being in their presence." Myrcella pressed on.

At her words, Dacey's eyes darkened and her face hardened. "Oh, he can smell treachery alright. That has saved our lives more than once." The armoured lady said and there was much heaviness in her voice that Myrcella thought it best to change the subject, because it was so very obvious that whatever was going through lade Mormont's mind at the moment had to be very unpleasant indeed to cast such a shadow on her face. Later in her tent, Myrcella had wondered and tried to imagine the animal that Dacey described but she had to admit that she had some difficulty. That is, until one morning she slipped out of her tent and not even ten paces later she found herself face to face with the beast.

Her breath froze in her lungs, and her steps faltered.

She had tried to picture a wolf that was the size of a horse and she had thought that she could, but _this_… this was…

_This is unreal…_

And yet it was very much a reality. The beast's snout was bloody and as it snarled at her, blood dripped from its mouth. There were no words for Myrcella's terror, for her heart hammering like the wings of a mockingbird in her breast… She could not breathe and all she could see was those lips pulled back in a snarl, that low growl, a head that was bigger than her torso and a mouth of teeth so sharp that it would not even take a second to rip her apart like she was made of clay. Those yellow eyes stared at her with both an uncommon intelligence and an animal's blindness at the same time.

She could not see or hear anything but that creature in front of her. Not the eyes of all those men around her, so intent, nor the silence that had fallen. At the heart of an army, dozens of men around her, and the loudest sound she felt was her own heart beating in her throat. Out of habit perhaps, Myrcella tried to think of a way to escape, something to do to live, but her mind could not conjure an option and the void she felt in her own brain proved to her that there was no way out of this, not this time. She was alone and she would die alone, of a violent, bloody death, far away from any who loved her…

_It seems to be the chosen death for Princesses of the Iron Throne…_

The beast started circling her, licking its bloody chops and Myrcella could not help but follow the motion with wide eyes, not daring to move an inch further from the spot she was rooted in, her breathing so fast she felt the constraints of her dress against her chest. She closed her hands in fists, straightened her back and blinked rapidly to try and choke back the tears. It didn't work though, she felt them fall down her cheeks as she had so rarely felt them throughout her life. What use was pride now, she wondered as she heard that beast growling so loudly that it seemed the tumble of a storm. More tears blurred her vision and Myrcella cursed whoever had said that prolonging death was its own form of torture.

But she did not want to die looking into those terrible yellow eyes staring at her with such intent… so when she saw the beast crouch and gather its limbs, ready to spring at her, Myrcella closed her eyes and turned her face away… trying to think of nothing and seeing the faces of her family and all the people she had ever loved while begging silently for it to be quick, not to hurt so much…

…but the bite of death never came.

Instead she felt a hand settle on her arm and she shivered so violently at the contact that she almost fell. And would have fallen, her legs were unsteady at this point, but the same hand caught her arm firmly and she know who it was before she opened her eyes and looked up at him. The only one who had dared touch her so far was Sansa, and that hand felt too big to ever belong to the princess.

The furious anger she saw on the King's face when she looked up at him made her turn away immediately, wincing. She tried to wipe her tears with one hand, find some thread of composure as she told her legs to stop shaking and keep up her weight. She would be no-one's fool as long as she had a choice in it. And she was not going to die either, though not even five heartbeats ago she had been fully convinced of the contrary.

There was some commotion around her and perhaps it had been that way all the while, only she had not heard any of it. Even now she was only vaguely aware of people moving, shouting, as she was pushed to talk with a firm hand that did not hurt. She could not even tell where she was being taken because she was too preoccupied with the tears that would not stop falling no matter what she did to stop them. She had never cried this way in her life: in stillness, without sobs or shaking, without so much as a whimper. Just tears leaking out from some deep dark place over a frozen face, tears that she had collected over a long time. Every bad memory, every horrible sensation came back and she could not stop those tears from falling, even as she was ushered inside a tent or other, even as she tripped and almost fell, only to be caught and even as she felt her feet leave the ground entirely, lifted up like a child. Even then she had not the presence of mind for anything but a half hearted struggle that led nowhere. If before her insides ha felt like someone had filled them with iron, now her bones themselves had liquefied.

She could barely move, a horrible feeling overtaking her: the knowledge that something had just broken within her and all the rivers of her existence were leaking out. All the tears she had refused to shed for years, all of them were overwhelming her. She was so out of herself that she did not even have enough sense to be ashamed of them. And when she was laid on a soft bed of furs that smelled foreign, all she could do was push face against the softness of it and give in, just this once.

o

TBC:::

1 Unknown reference, I read it once in a funny meme that i found in the net, without a specific author, but still, disclaimer, just in case.


	3. You have to know your name

_AN:__**response to reviews**: thank you to every guest reviewer to whom i cannot respond in messages to thank them for reading and reviweing this story. I am so very happy that you like it and i hope to do it justice. Thank you to Dracolover (cool name, btw ;P), Im glad you like the story; this chapter has, i hope, a bit more of the Robb Myrcella interaction that you wanted. And to the guest who posted the longest review yet, i beg for your patience, seeing that this is my first 'game of thrones' fanfiction and, after all, it is just fanfiction, a completely AU story, and probably im mischaracterising a lot of characters, but im writing for fun and for those who enjoy a littel diversion. I do however apriciate you taking the time to speak to me, so thanks for that._

_o_

_3. You have to know your name_

'_We frail humans are at one time capable of the greatest good and, at the same time, capable of the greatest evil. Change will only come about when each of us takes up the daily struggle ourselves to be more forgiving, compassionate, loving, and above all joyful in the knowledge that, by some miracle of grace, we can change as those around us can change too.'_

_- __Mairead Maguire -_

When the raven had first arrived from King's Landing with Tywin Lannister's terms of peace, Robb mulled the possibilities over for a long time before summoning his council, which had been (predictably) dead set against to the idea. However, it had taken little persuasion to convince them of the benefits of the proposal, mostly because all of his bannermen were tired of war and they wanted to go home - winter was well on its way and there were other, more dangerous battles to be fought and they all knew that. So if wedding the King to an almost princess was the price to pay, so be it. In private, he had discussed this with his mother much more at length, before he spoke with his men. There were very few privy to his true reasons for agreeing to wed the bastard princess of the Iron Throne, men that he would forswear his life to. Men that he needed as witnesses.

But after all that was done, it was to prince Oberyn that Robb had wanted to speak to. All the realm knew that Myrcella Baratheon had been taken to Dorne since she was barely two and ten and that was where she spent her whole life until her queenly mother had finally had her successfully kidnapped and brought back to King's Landing. (He didn't allow himself to think that perhaps, had the dornishmen guarded the princess a little better, he wouldn't have to worry about marrying a second Cercei Lannister) So if there was anyone who knew this elusive Princess' character if would be the Red Viper since, after all, she had been raised in his brother's court.

When Robb had asked, the prince had smiled that secret smile of his, dark eyes glittering in the firelight of the camp, full of secrets.

"You do know that her face was slashed open, yes?"

Robb had felt the prickle of irritation, but held his tongue and simply nodded. The Viper had shrugged him off then, and continued talking.

"Her manners are polished, her wits are quick and her elegance is that of a true princess. And of course, she has her mother's absolutely stunning face –unless you're a man to prefer the image of perfection, you're going to find her attractive enough even with that scar. In fact, there are those, such as myself-" the Prince had continued, his smile turning wickedly sharp in turn. "-who say that she is more beautiful than Cercei Lannister ever was, because she has none of her mother's bitterness, and where Cercei's beauty is like a frosty blade, her daughter's is as warm the sun of my country."

Which was all well and good, but there had been something in Prince's eyes when he spoke that had made Robb wonder. Robb had sensed from the beginning that the Red Viper was a man of powerful passions and strong contradictions – and there had been one of those contradicting emotions in his eyes then, as Robb contemplated his words. And that was when beautiful Ellaria, who at meals never left Oberyn's side, nudged at her lover with a kiss on his cheek (and even a chaste gesture as that seemed somehow more sensual than it had any right to be, coming from her lips).

"Don't be a grump, lover." She had said softly, and that had caused Oberyn to roll his eyes, but smile at her nonetheless. Ellaria had turned to Robb then and smiled at him with the content look of a stretching feline, her large smoky eyes reminding him very much of a shadowcat's stare. Robb had had to adapt to many of the dornish ways when he welcomed the alliance with them, but he could not quite adjust how free dornish women seemed, how confident in their own skin and purpose – whatever that may be. Ellaria for example was one of a kind: so unashamed of herself, but somehow managed not to seem shameless because of it – there was too much pride in her for that. Or perhaps it was only Oberyn's lover who was that way.

"My beloved is cross because the little princess has never given him a reason to despise her but for the blood in her veins. And you can't very well hate a little girl just for that, can you?" Ellaria had explained and then chuckled as if that was a funny jape… and perhaps, considering all things, it really had been. But Robb had not been able to appreciate it then.

Oberyn had scoffed however.

"I can, and I should… but I'm not a fool, so I don't." He'd muttered, somewhat petulantly. He could, but apparently he did not. Robb remembered the sharpness in Ellaria's eyes as she eloquently raised a beautifully-arched eyebrow at her lover, making the prince smile around the rim of his cup before he turned to Robb again.

"My nephew Trystane, to whom the princess was betrothed to, used to say that Myrcella is what my daughter Tyene pretends to be: the sweetest girl that ever lived. As far as I know, my nephew was not wrong." The Prince had said and raised his glass of wine to Robb, laughter dancing in his dark eyes. "But you should not forget, Wolf King, that this princess of the Iron Throne was raised in Dorne, among the Sand Snakes - and my daughters are not delicate creatures. The weak do not survive them."

Robb had thought about those words carefully and he was thinking carefully on them even now, months later.

He had met Oberyn's daughters - the oldest four of them. It had been a wonder to see them riding with the army, Robb had not thought that their father would have allowed them to come, much less ride in battle. It had not taken him long to understand however, that the Sand Snakes were not women to be _allowed_ anything, just as he had come to understand that, though in different ways, the Snakes were all fierce and dangerous in the same measure. (Arya _adored_ them for it, and she had already asked him if she could join them in Dorne when everything was settled. He had half a mind to let her.) By either lance, spear, darts or arrows, they were as efficiently lethal as their father was and it took a mind's eye he did not poses to imagine the quiet and so well-mannered princess to whom he was betrothed to, growing up with women so fierce and bold.

It felt like a stretched truth… but not an impossible one. It had taken Robb very little scrutiny to realize that his wife-to-be was not as delicate a creature as she may first appear. As petty as it sounded, it really was a shame that a face such as hers was so marred, but despite feeling that way Robb really did not care about her scar – he had plenty of his own and never bothered about them. Hers was more immediate than any he had, true, and it would be a lie to say it was not unpleasant, just as it would be a lie to say it was grotesque. There was a certain appeal to it even, in how it took something out of the sweetness of her looks, replacing it with the hardness of painful experiences. It grounded him to earth, reminded him that this was no sweet maiden: Myrcella Baratheon was Cercei Lannister daughter and if nothing else, proof of steel was in the way she spoke when she asked to say goodbye to her family, in the way she had come into his tent that first night and held his eyes without wavering even though he could see she was nervous, perhaps even afraid. Afraid yes, which had surprised him and shocked him out of that initial hardness and cold detachment he fell back on whenever he was unsure of how to act.

He could freely admit that he had had no idea how to act towards the princess when he had first met her. From the very beginning he had given her little thought but for what she meant for his country and his family and his men. She had hardly been real, until he saw her face that day when Sansa was returned to him. After that, he had not thought of her much beyond his wonderings of how to handle someone he could not seem to get a clear understanding of.

She was nothing like Roslyn, he had thought one night, as he pondered her person (and privately he admitted that this was perhaps a kindness, otherwise Robb had no idea how he would ever be able to go through with this godforsaken marriage). She was nothing like any woman he had ever met, for that matter, but Roslyn was who he compared her to, for reasons that to him were obvious. Roslyn had been scared and fretful and so very shy at first… so very honest too, with wide doe eyes of golden brown and a kind heart that he had taken warm comfort in. She had been so gentle, so eager to love him that the affection that had grown in him for her that been as easy as breathing. She had been brave too, brave in daring to trust him from the start, in daring to gamble her faith in him even though she'd never met him before the day she came to be his wife. On the other hand, Myrcella born Baratheon, with Lannister blood in her veins, was the farthest cry from Roslyn Frey there could ever be, contrary to her in every single way: Where Roslyn's beauty had been subtle, gentle and sweet, the princess' was bold, immediate, undeniable even with that savaged cheek of hers that she never bothered to hide. Roslyn had been unblemished from the inside out, a piece of innocence that had astounded Robb, brought him back into a world where innocence still survived. The princess on the other hand had eyes that spoke of a survivor's journey, not quite so honest, nor so trusting and sometimes Rob thought she was as hardened as he was. And if he had been so easily swayed to care for Roslyn from the very first night he spent with her, Robb could not even be persuaded to speak more than five sentences in a row to this Princess that was to take her place.

Take her place… Robb snorted at the thought. Nobody could ever take anybody's place in anyone's heart. People just built layers.

_A princess…_

No matter what blood flowed in her veins, it was an easy thing to see that Myrcella of House Baratheon was raised as royalty. She _was_ a princess. She carried herself with dignity that started in her eyes and stood with her back straight in such a way that it made her seem even taller than she was - and she was not short to begin with. Her every movement was measured, the elegance of them one such as he had never seen, because there was nothing behind it but grace. You could not see the effort, only that natural poise that made you think it was all an afterthought, as if the Princess had been born that way and not taught courtly manners like all ladies. It was easy to see royalty in her, despite that scar on her face that made her look more like a warrior than a lady. Perhaps that dignity of hers so bereft of arrogance was what had stopped his bannermen from going too far with their insults behind her back. Ignorance and hatred will do as they please of course, but those that had two coins worth of sense to rub together and a little honour, found it hard to insult too heavily a lady that had the most royal presence any one of them had ever seen.

There were other things about her too… things much easier to notice. Kissed by fire, the northerners said of those that had red in their hair. If that was the way, Myrcella Baratheon had to be kissed by the sun. She was vibrant in it – in her hair, on her skin - as if she had been dipped in gold from head to foot (and he'd be a liar if he had not imagined what that looked like beneath her clothes) Andal blood, some called it (though it did her no favours since for some she seemed to be a living emblem to her family). To Robb it seemed as if she carried summer under her skin. The warmth of it was even in the dramatic green of her eyes - eyes that after the kingslayer's company were almost familiar. Almost. The Princes' eyes were wider, rounder. Not quite so sharpened by cynicism perhaps, not nearly as cold as her mother's, for sure.

Her mother… the queen's shadow followed this princess' every step. Everyone looked at her and saw her mother, and Robb was no different. But at least, he was cleverer than most: Robb had stopped worrying about having another Cercei Lannister in his bed when he saw the princes smile for the first time. It had not been directed at him of course, but at Sansa, who was the sole receiver of the Princess's unguarded moments.

Ever since the princess had set foot in his line of vision, Robb had been trying to determine the truth about Myrcella Baratheon – and perhaps had been unkind in doing so, with his gruff manner and measuring stares - trying to understand her without the benefit of speaking to her himself. Unfair, yes. But when had life ever been fair? He had wanted to know from which angle to grab this foreign creature, trying to understand which side was less poisonous, which was safe, if any. He did not trust her poise and her grace, that careful control on her face and the distant politeness with which she regarded all about her. If anything, it made him even more suspicious of her. But then he had seen her release that so careful royal face, had seen the poise let up and make way for something real, something _alive_, the green of her eyes vibrating with startling life, her face warming, so unexpectedly kind…

Robb had no idea what she and Sansa had been speaking of but when she had smiled, he had understood that this princess was nothing like her mother. She could not be, if she was capable of smiling that way. He remembered the queen from the weeks she had spent in Winterfell. More than a month in his home and Robb had never once seen the woman smile. It was always those razor-sharp smirks with her, lopsided and mocking. The ice queen, they had called Cercei back then, in whispers and in jest. The bitch queen, the Lannister woman, mother of madness – those were some among the tiles that she held.

There was none of that in the princess though. She kept to her own company, but she was not frozen. It had been a small relief.

But that warmth of real emotion melted away like summer snow whenever the princess caught sight of him. She was so reserved that talking to her seemed harder than drawing blood of a stone - which was why in a whole fortnight, he had barely spoke two words to her. Perhaps the princess was not in the wrong; after all, Robb knew he had not been exactly welcoming and perhaps she used courtesy as a fallback, because she was as unsure about him as he was about her. But there was something else to the way she regarded him, a weariness he could not name. Robb didn't exactly know what that emotion she watched him with was, if it was fear, or suspicion or dislike, or perhaps a mixture of all three. She masked her emotions well behind all that fixed polite expression (her royal face, he had started calling it) and had he been a lesser man he could even have been distracted by it as she undoubtedly meant him to, but it had been a long time since a man – or woman, for that matter - had been able to deceive him. Robb could see that she was weary of him more than she was of anyone else.

It would have been so easy to say that she feared him, but Robb knew fear and that was not what he saw in her - at least not entirely. In a fortnight of dining with his family and watching her from afar, he had noticed patterns in her behaviour, and more importantly, the fact that these patters only applied to _him_. She always froze when he was near and whenever he spoke to her, or even looked at her, she… it seemed as if she hid behind herself, behind that wall that was her royal person. And he knew how to tell the difference between her expressions, because she did not react this way with anyone else _but_ him.

Robb had never thought himself as a particularly frightening man and he knew that there were harsher men about her, men who spoke to her not always kindly, no matter what Robb had ordered. And yet Dacey said (with a veil of unconcealed admiration in her tone) that the Princess never flinched in front of anyone, never looked down or hunched her shoulders, or got visibly angry about anything.

She didn't fear any of them. None but him. It set him thinking.

But as it was common, just when Robb had resolved that he could not go on ignoring his betrothed until it was time for the wedding, no matter what his personal doubts might be, the proverbial shit hit the fan.

Perhaps he had waited too long, even if too long was just two miserable weeks.

ooo

He had been shocked by the strength of it, as one is when catching a familiar scent in utter incomprehensible circumstances. He had smelled fear through Greywind before, but this was… it was that sheer terror that had no name, and that pierced his senses like a lightning searing the night sky. This was not what he had expected when he sensed his friend close by.

Robb got up so suddenly that the Greatjon moved his hand to his sword immediately and looked around, stepping in to protect his flank.

"What is it?" the big man asked, but Robb put a calming hand on his shoulder just as he started forward with a pace as swift as he could without outright running. He knew exactly where Greywind had picked up that scent and he could hardly imagine what had befallen the Princess to terrify her so much that she should smell of death, and so sharply so that Robb could practically taste it in his own mouth. He didn't like how with every step, the silence around him deepened, as if this part of the camp was made of mute men. They parted for him hastily, his men, but he thought nothing of it – he should have. There had been alarm in their eyes, but Robb hadn't noticed.

But then he came within sight of his mother's tent and saw her standing there, tall and straight and frozen as Nymeria growled, circling her like prey and Greywind watched from the sidelines, his restless pacing concentrating into fierceness when Robb came close. He noticed her rapid breathing, her pale face, the white knuckles of her fisted hands… saw Nymeria coil, ready to spring and tear her apart and saw the princess make no noise and no movement beyond turning her face away and closing her eyes, a tear staining her cheek and her scar as it fell.

His stomach fell through to the ground even as he moved to her and with a voice that boomed even in the middle of battle, ordered the wolf back, even as Greywind growled at his sister from the sideline of his vision, backing Nymeria into the woods. That was all it took for the men around them to burst to life, acting busy, all trying so hard to seem they had something to do, anything but to stand there and watch. Robb turned to the princess, and with trepidation, he dared speak to her. She had not yet opened her eyes and when she did not respond to her title, he put his hand on her arm, gently as if she might be made of glass.

He expected her to shiver away, to jump, even scream. All she did was open her eyes and hit him with that _look_…

For a moment he felt himself become smaller under her eyes.

But then she winced and looked away immediately. Her tears would not stop coming down though, no matter how fast she blinked. It was an uncomfortable wonder to see her then, because though he took no joy in her pain or her tears, they distracted him from the intensity of his anger at the moment… and he was very much aware that he needed distracting. Robb looked at nobody but her, because he could not trust himself to look about and catch sight of Arya by mistake. He was too angry for it now. Arya and her punishment for this idiocy would have to wait. Wait for him to usher the princess into his tent (strange how easily she followed his direction) and apologise for her distress in a way that he hoped would convince her he was not craven enough to set wolves on her on purpose.

But she would not stop her tears, or rather, the tears refused to stop falling no matter how harshly she dashed them away or how fast she tried to blink them into submission. She was so frozen as she cried… as if her eyes were just leaking water and nothing more. Not another muscle of her face moved and Robb wondered if maybe she was in shock still. He was convinced of it when she tripped on the hem of the rug and almost fell on her face.

She weighted little over nothing when he caught her and set her on his bed. He could not think of what else to do with her, but as his discomfort grew along with his sympathy, for the very first time it occurred to him that she too was unsure and afraid and very much alone as well, in the middle of an army that were her enemies… and bound to marry a man that was…

Robb froze for a moment, and then took a step back, watching the line of her shoulders and how it trembled ever so faintly every as the princess sobbed in utter silence, face hidden away in his furs. Who knew what she thought of him, what they said in southern courts about him. She had probably been told that he was some savage that was as likely to rape her here and now as he was to set wolves on her at any moment – an opinion that was only going to be reinforced after this blunder today.

Who _did_ she think she was marrying? And what would she think now, after this?

Robb felt his feet take another step back, shame starting to burn in him. And there had he been, like a right prick, wondering about her reserve and the distance she kept, wondering why she looked at him with dread. Wondering what her game was when she had refused to keep Lannister soldiers as guards. What would _they_ be able to do, if he had meant her real harm? Nothing at all, nothing but watch. And she had known that. He'd known it too, but only now was he able to understand a little bit of what that would mean for her, if he really were so cruel.

Gods, but he felt like the monster that she no doubt thought he was…

He couldn't stand it a moment longer!

Robb turned and left her there before he started ripping his hair off in his rage. It was proof that the gods could be merciful, when he saw Sansa outside his tent, anxious but careful not to come in. It took her only a look at him to know what he needed and Robb had never loved his sister more than when she slipped by him, her hand briefly on his arm before she went inside his tent and left him to himself.

But by himself he was the most dangerous, and all around him men seemed to take notice of that. Robb felt his fists clench and unclench and the storm inside him heaved.

He needed to run; run his rage raw. He needed the forest.

ooo

The hiss of a sword through air and clash of steel rang in his ears and Robb concentrated all his senses and perception in the movements of his arms and legs: all the fierceness of his anger, the depths of his disappointment. He had to focus on his adversary and the long spear the Red Viper yielded with such deadly precision, on escaping it, evading it's sting to get close enough o the man to slash at him at least once.

"You're starting to miss, my friend."

The taunt went right over his head at this point. There was nothing the dornish prince could say to make Robb any angrier than he was, but even if he had not been in such a state, Robb would still not have fallen for it. Swordplay had always been a source of focus and sharpness for him, but more than that, with the years and with testing in crucial moments, Robb had learned to rear in his emotions and control his temper in a way that served him well when all around him the world wanted to crumble. If he lost control every time his emotions got the better of him, Robb would spend much more time running with Greywind that he already did and that was unacceptable.

Robb looked at the prince, calculated distance, strength, velocity and his enemy's movement and then lunged… and managed to shove at Oberyn's spear enough to crash into him and send the man off balance, enough to swing the sword at him. Missed of course, but that was not the point.

They were at it until Robb was exhausted and his limbs felt heavy like they were made of lead. And when the prince took off is armour, Robb could see that Oberyn too was breathing hard and his sweaty forehead spoke of the same fatigue Robb felt. It was easier now though, to think back at what had happened. His exhaustion seemed to eat away at his temper, leaving him to bear only the memory of his previous fury… and even then, even just the memory of it was hot enough to burn.

He could hardly believe Arya's stupidity. Her selfish incomprehension of the consequences of her actions had set him into a rage that had very few others for comparison.

Robb did not consider himself a temperamental man. In his youth he had been quick to anger and just as quick to forgive and forget, but the rebellion and war had changed him. His humours had grown to be for the most part steady, and even though he knew the hotness of wolfblood in his veins, fate had seen fit to temper it with a cool reason that everyone said mirrored his father's. War had forged him into a man with an iron control over his own self, and battle had imprinted upon him the steadiness of a sharp rule over his body and mind even as the hotness of battle-rage took over him. And still, all of it had been trampled to nothing in front of the wrath he'd felt mere hours prior.

All his work, all the careful planning and years of blood and death and the utter desolation of war… all of it wiped clean because of the stupidity of one girl - his own sister. No matter that he had spoken to her beforehand, knowing that the princess' presence in the camp would likely set Arya off in all manner of mischief; no matter that he had warned her that, despite any kind of behaviour, the princess was not for harming, because she was the key to the very fragile truce with the south. (No matter that the princess was as bloody far from bothersome as anyone could be. She hardly stirred the air about her own person for fuck's sake!) He had been very clear that Arya was to steer clear of the girl everyone said had her mother's face, if his sister could not bear to keep herself civil. Robb had been stern in his commands and when Arya had only nodded in front of them, he had known that his sister was not convinced, but he had trusted her not to act against his explicit directive.

He had _trusted_. And his sister had gone and done _this_…

'_I didn't mean to kill her.'_ Arya had told him, as meekly as Arya ever could, as Robb paced in front of her, all rage and fury without anywhere to unleash them on. _'I just wanted to scare her a little'_ she'd said.

That had been when Robb had left his mother's tent. He could not even bear to look at Arya any longer and he knew that should he stay and face that argument with her then, he would say and do things that he could possibly regret. He had been much too angry for rational thought in that moment. But he had been rational enough to order her mother not to let Arya leave the tent for any reason. His sister would be the one to put the chains on Nymeria, with her own hands, as a punishment for both their recklessness.

'_I just wanted to scare her a little.'_

It sounded so trivial. So foolish, like child's-play… and it sounded even crueller when he thought of it that way. He could see it so clearly still: Nymeria, huge and bloody, coiling for the kill. A flash of wide, terrified green eyes – eyes that for the first time showed the truth about the young age of the princess they belonged to… and his shame renewed with a twinge of his insides.

He had played the same trick on the Kingslayer once, but it had not seemed to him nearly so cruel as doing it to his daughter. The Kingslayer was a grown man, a soldier. He was prepared for worse. He deserved worse after all he had done. But the Princess was a different matter and doing the same to her was cruel, because it was _unwarranted_. His mind screamed the word at him, stroking the embers of rage again, wishing he were speaking to his sister and not just inside his own head. Her ridiculous play had been an utterly unjustifiable act of malice and as vicious as it was stupid, damn it! Had that wolf slipped out of Arya's control for even a moment, they would have been plunged right back into a war that would have lasted as long as Cercei Lannister and her spawns lived.

It was unwarranted, he told himself again and this time he felt the full weight of a guilt that did not belong to him settle on his gut. It had not been Greywind to terrify the life right out of the princess, but it had been _him_ whom to whom she had looked at with the void eyes of those that knew the taste of death… and it had not been his imagination that made him see in her eyes a thin betrayal that she had no right to feel.

Or perhaps all the rights in the world. She was to be his, was she not? She was going to be his lady wife, his queen, and in the two weeks travelling with her he had barely spoke a word to her.

He should have known better. And the princess had all the rights in the world to feel betrayed. He was _King_… if he was unable to stop his house's direwolves from tearing his own betrothed apart, he was nothing.

Robb sighed and rubbed his forehead trying to root out the splintering ache building there. He had known that there were things behind Arya's eyes he would never get to be privy to. Dark things, violent things that she would never speak of. When Bolton had found her at Harrenhall and brought her to him, she had been almost unrecognisable. So cold, so hard. She had still cried though, when he had taken her in his arms and held her, and she had cried harder when their mother had almost fallen on her knees at the sight of her and sobbed as they held each other. Arya was his sister, his wild-little-boy sister, still, and that darkness abated just a little more with every day she spent with her family. But there was a thirst for blood in her that Robb recognised. Arya hungered for vengeance with a single-mindedness that was characteristic of her, and she was as ruthless as any man of war about getting it.

Robb could not deny it that sometimes he felt the same way himself, but he did not have the luxury of giving in to those that he perceived to be baser instincts. He had a crown to bear, with all the responsibilities that came with it. He could ill afford to turn into a ruthless man. If he did, that same ruthlessness would ripple across his men, elevated to the tenth power in each of them and the destruction that would follow would be a hundred times more grave than Robb was prepared to have on his conscience. War was beastly enough without it. Even now, being as he was, fighting to never forget how to care, he could not always contain the unprovoked savagery of his men. It was the nature of war.

He had made peace with the fact that he could not control everything a long time ago. But it seemed that he could not even control his own sister.

"You seem aggravated. What ails your mind, my friend?"

Robb looked to his right, when Oberyn came to him and spoke with that usual direct manner that Robb had appreciated in the Prince of Dorne from the very start.

"My sister." Robb said laconically. The Prince had no way of having heard what had happened. His party had only just joined the main army from their long scouting mission. In fact, both Nymeria and Greywind had been with them, leading them into the deep woods ahead of the main army to secure a safe passage through the Riverlands.

As soon as Robb had left his mother's tent, he had walked for the practice yards that the soldiers had set up. His men parted from him without even daring to look at him in the eye, and he had beaten several of them to the ground in the practice rig, before the Viper came to him, still in his full armour and looking like he just got off his horse and, laughing, challenged him into a match _'since you seem to be in a sparring mood'_. Robb had accepted, but in truth they both had known that he had simply been in a very foul mood and had wanted to vent off the violence he felt coiling in him in a way that could do controllable damage.

"What of your sister?" Oberyn asked, now much more darkly. "I heard she was returned to you whole and healthy."

And there was the threat of darkness in those words, the implicit violence that was always very close to the surface with the Red Viper when it came to the matter of sisters of any kind. That violence had not abated when he had taken the Mountain's head… and Robb imagined it could not, not that kind of hatred. He too was of the sort that wanted all Lannisters to rot in the sun.

"She was, though I doubt she is as unharmed as she pretended to be for my sake." Robb said, thinking back as Sansa's wretched sobs when she had first seen him, the desolation in her eyes sometimes, when she thought nobody was looking. "But I was speaking of my other sister."

Oberyn smiled. "Ah, the little she-wolf. She is the aggravation then?"

Yes, Robb thought as he heard the amusement in Oberyn's tone, Arya had a gift for making friends among the fierce. And Oberyn liked his sister well enough.

"You could say that, yes." Robb didn't know how to even begin explaining the incident in a way that sounded sensible. For all the good graces between them, he and the Prince of Dorne were not so close in friendship as to warrant free discussion of family matters.

The silence stretched as they walked towards one of the centres of the camp and it would have gone on had one of Oberyn's daughter's not interrupted it.

"Your grace, father." She bowed her head in the manner of all dornish, forgoing the curtsey since she was, as all her sisters, wearing leather breeches and not a gown. Robb took in her sharp features, the almost-black curls of her braid and the smoky dark eyes that were just like her fathers. This was Elia, Robb remembered, the youngest of the sisters here, and the one that Oberyn himself said was the 'most difficult'. A clever euphemism for the fact that she had her father's exact temperament and they clashed like storm clouds whenever they disagreed on anything. At six-and-ten Elia was as fierce and proud as her sisters and she was in many ways the only one that had the nerve to argue with her father in a way that her older – and wiser – siblings did not. Robb however recognised Oberyn's stubbornness when it came to his youngest for what it was: the prince had a weakness for her in a way that he did not for her other daughters who were all fully grown and perfectly able to take care of themselves. And perhaps it was also because, aside from the eyes that she had taken from her father, Elia was the exact replica of her mother. It was impossible to look at her and not see Ellaria Sand's exotic likeness.

"Forgive me for interrupting your grace." The girl said, looking him in the eye in the bold way that Robb was used to now. "I have heard that Princess Myrcella is here, yet I cannot seem to find her and nobody will tell me where to look. Nobody seems to dare even speak her name."

Robb took a deep breath. It had been a long time since he had felt so uncomfortable in his own skin. It was the guilt, he realized and even though he hardened his face against it so that it might not be readable in his face, he knew his own heart and couldn't lie to himself.

"The Princess is resting." He said carefully, and those eyes that everyone called 'viper eyes' snapped at him and zeroed in on his face with an expression of absolute incredulity at first… and then with a kind of venomous suspicion that stung. "My sister's direwolf frightened her, and I took her to my tent, so that she could be undisturbed. My sister Sansa is with her, you need not worry."

From his right, Robb heard Oberyn's soft _'Ah'_ of comprehension and the prince limited himself in that, but not his daughter. She said nothing of course, but those snake-eyes of hers were intent on him.

"May I have permission to visit her, your grace?" she asked then, carefully and he knew how much it was costing her to even ask for such a thing as permission – but she had to, since after all it was his private quarters she wanted to go into. Oberyn had told him that Elia was the one child who was likely never to ask about anything… but these were his private quarters she intended to visit. "I assure you, the princess will want me there. We were always the closest of friends."

Robb found that surprising and expected in equal parts. "Very well. You have my leave."

Elia Sand did not thank him, nor did the hardness of her eyes recede. She only inclined her head to him and then took her leave with a swift pace that was only a breath away from an outright run.

"Just out of curiosity, did the direwolf attack?"

Robb felt his irritation flare at the prince's laid back tone.

"No. But I'm sure you know that is inconsequential. Nymeria scares most men just by walking by."

The prince snorted. "Perhaps it is so, but your princess is not most men. She does not scare easy. In fact, I have rarely met a man or woman so prone to quiet fearlessness."

Robb had to turn and look at the prince then, and Oberyn shrugged in that usual careless way of his.

"Safe to say that the wolf did not just walk by then?" Oberyn pushed, and Robb would have liked nothing better than to punch that smirk off the Prince's face.

"No, she did not." He answered, looking ahead as he walked away briskly. Oberyn's snicker followed him and all Robb could think of was how much he missed Jon in that moment. Even fucking Theon would have been a better option, though Theon would have probably made a great companion to Oberyn since they seemed to have the same sick sense of humour. But it had been a long time since Robb could think of Theon without his heart clenching.

ooo

Myrcella woke slowly, the waking world filtering in her mind as smoke through water, in slow and lazy tendrils. She felt surrounded by warmth and the echo of a memory that belonged to some time ago, in another place where the sun was hot and bright and its fingers reached to her through latticed windows. It was pleasant to be wrapped in the feeling this brought her, so she lingered for a heartbeat more after the dreamy feel of this memory left her, only to open her eyes and find out that she had hot been dreaming at all.

Myrcella felt her breath hitch.

"Elia!"

She sat up immediately, perhaps a little too fast, and ended up with Elia wrapped around her in a strong embrace that she had missed.

"Gods… what are you doing _here_?!" she could not help but ask as Elia laughed in her ear.

"Well, where else would I be? You didn't think I'd leave all the fun to you and my sisters now, did you?" Elia said as she drew back and reached out to Myrcella's hair to fix back the stray curls that had escaped her braid as she slept. In front of Myrcella's eyes widening with something very much like horror though, Elia offered a little more explanation.

"Oh, don't look at me that way, it's not like I'm riding into battle! Obara would have my hide." And then her smile turned wicked, just like her mother's was. "I did go scouting with my father's men though."

Myrcella shook he her head at her friend's unusual concepts of a good fun time, but could not help the smile. Elia was bold and generous, but she was also one of the Sand Snakes and that was not to be forgotten.

"I came up when my father send word that you were doing to be the bride of Winter about a month ago. I sailed here with Dorne's wedding gifts for you."

Myrcella felt her face settle into the lopsided smile that she knew well, feeling the spark of mischief in her, one that she had not felt in a long while – ever since she had been parted from her usual partner in crime, actually.

"Are _you_ one of my wedding presents?"

Elia snorted. "You should be so lucky." And then her eyes softened. "I was worried about you, you know. For a good time we thought you were dead in a ditch somewhere."

Myrcella smiled sadly. "For a good time, so did I."

Elia's dark brows pulled together in a heavy frown. "Who was it that your queenly mother sent after you? Not even my father's men could track you after you were taken away from Sunspear."

Myrcella sighed. She did not want to go about digging in those memories. There was nothing pleasant about them.

"I don't know where they were from. Sometimes I thought they spoke dornish, but their dialect was beyond me. And you could to track me because I never made it to Sunspear." Myrcella saw the shock ripple through in Elia's face. "I was taken a day after my party had left the Watergardens, and a decoy was used in my place. The kidnapping in Sunspear was a decoy, and I'm sure that so were the people you followed. I travelled to King's Landing by ship."

"But… but that's impossible!" Elia said, getting up, her voice rising. "Nobody could have known that we were all at the Watergardens with my uncle, that was pure coincidence! And how was this decoy not recognised in Sunspear – yours is not a face anyone is likely to ever forget, Myr! And what about your guard – didn't they notices that the princess they were supposed to be guarding was missing?!"

The more she spoke, the angrier Elia got.

"Those guards had already been bought." Myrcella explained calmly, taking her friends hand in hers "And though you love me well and look me in the eye when you speak to me, you know that not everyone in Dorne has that same regard, Elia. A thin veil over this face and nobody ever knew the difference between me and someone who looks remarkably like me. Nobody thought twice about it - veiled women are common in Dorne."

Elia scowled and kept pacing for a few more moments, anger stewing in her, but then she dropped herself on the chair she had been occupying moments ago, looking sad an sullen at the same time.

"That's what father suspected you know. He told us almost the same thing. I just didn't want to believe it." Elia looked down at her hands. "Sounds so stupid, the way you were taken. Dorne should be ashamed of its own defences really… I'm sorry we let you go so easily Myrcella. I know you didn't want to go back."

Myrcella shrugged. Had she stayed in Dorne she would not be here as a bride to be, she would be here as a hostage. But she knew that Elia had never had an interest in politics and that was not the feeling behind her words anyway.

"I don't know about easily. I put up quite a fight you know."

Elia's smile returned. "Oh, I would have been disappointed if you hadn't. Did you kill any of them?"

It had been a joke, but the way Myrcella's eyes sobered instantly let Elia know that she should not have said it so flippantly after all, since the answer to that light questing seemed to be a very definite yes.

"Huh… Obara will be proud of you." Elia said then, after frantically searching her mind for the right thing to say and coming up only with this. "She'll probably give you some sharp dagger to celebrate."

Myrcella smiled and passed a hand over Elia's thick black hair, always soft as a bird's feathers no matter how wild Elia herself could be. She had learned to care in different ways for all her childhood companions, but Elia had been good to her from the start. She was fierce and she was rough, but there had been no push-and-pull games with her, no tricks. Elia had shown a strange patience for Myrcella, because she had loved Trystane almost as much as Myrcella had, and he had brought them together as fast friends. The three of them hardly were ever apart for a time. And then, when it had been just Elia and Myrcella, they had taken comfort in each other.

Elia's eyes met hers and held, a smile widening on her full lips and Myrcella felt her heartbeat flutter with the happiness of familiarity, something that she had thought had been lost to her forever. It came to her in a moment… and went from her just as easily as she sat up in a bed that was not hers, surrounded by a scent she did not know and a space she had never seen before. Instinctively she knew where she was… remembered the tears that would not stop, (could still feel the puffiness of her face, the sting in her eyes) and how she had been picked up and settled here, in the same bed where she was sitting now… A great heaviness settled in her chest at the memory. How could she have possibly allowed herself to lose her composure that way? How on earth would she ever repair the damage she had done now?

Nerves began to form, making her heart beat a little louder.

It was then that she looked around and saw Sansa seated close to her bed, smiling at her amiably – and at the sight of the red-haired princess did Myrcella become conscious of many things at once; among them the fact that she had been speaking with Elia in dornish all the while and that had been quite rude of them both. But Myrcella had slipped back into the familiar dessert language with the ease of someone that considered it as familiar on her tongue as the westerosi she had been borne speaking and only became aware of the slip when she saw Sansa there, where she had been all along.

Had she been sitting with her? Guarding her?

Myrcella did not know if the northern princess noticed the shift in her mood or not, but Sansa still got up and came to sit by her, face grave and eyes sober as she took her hand.

"I am so sorry Myrcella." She said fully of feeling and Myrcella nodded, and tried to summon a proper response, but Sansa went on in a hurry before Myrcella could even open her mouth. "It would be too generous to say that it was an accident, but I swear that Arya did not mean you real harm. She'd just half wild and sometimes very stupid, but Robb promised me that he will never let Nymeria anywhere near the camp again…"

Sansa's zeal toned down when she was met with the confusion in Myrcella's eyes, one that grew the more she spoke. It took her only a moment to understand why the princess looked so tense in her presence, why that generic polite expression was gracing her face even as her eyes asked questions.

Sansa felt her mouth slacken in shock.

"You… you thought it was Greywind." She whispered, unable to believe it. Myrcella's eyes were steady on hers, but so void. There was no accusation there, only preservation. Sansa knew that look.

"You thought Robb had set him on you, didn't you?" Of course she had. In her place, Sansa would have probably thought the same thing. Her cheeks heated with the blush of shame and guilt for her stupid little sister and her rashness… "Oh Myrcella, that was Nymeria… _Arya's_ wolf."

"I didn't think much of anything really." Myrcella admitted slowly, looking at the hands on her lap, and then giving a small smile at both Sansa and Elia too. "I just saw the biggest wolf I've ever seen snarling at me like I was dinner."

Sansa flinched. "I'm… I'm truly sorry."

"Don't apologise. You've done nothing wrong." Myrcella finally said, but instead of a true feeling there was just exhaustion behind her words.

Sansa saw the change happen in Myrcella's eyes. Saw her shake her head and straighten her spine, and then look up and herself and Elia Sand with a smile.

"I suppose I don't have to introduce you two." She said and Sansa looked over at the dornish girl, smiling a little.

"No, we got past that while you were busy crying yourself to sleep." Elia said bluntly, not without a bite – which earned her a nudge by Myrcella's foot.

"Play nice, Elia. The princess is not used to your blunders as I am." The princess said with a small smile. Then, with another look around, she got up. "I suppose we should go. I don't… I don't want to be any more of an inconvenience for his grace than I already have."

Elia looked at her as if she had lost her senses, but Sansa only sighed and seemed like she was about to apologise again, before nodding and going out first, leading their way from the tent.

"Sansa…"

Sansa turned when her name was called, and saw that the princes was smiling at her; a real smile this time and she knew it was so because it was so faint.

"Thank you for staying with me. You really are too kind, I'm afraid I've done little to deserve it."

Elia snorted at that, not exactly the ladylike thing to do (but that had been obvious from the beginning, with how she was dressed – namely not in a dress) but Sansa smiled none the less, because she knew the truth: Myrcella may not have done much, but in a place where nothing was expected, a single hand reaching in the dark felt like it was giving you the world.

"Gods, you two are breaking my heart, really, but how about we get a move on - I'm starving."

Sansa's eyes were surprised at that particular brand of candour, but not without a certain amusement. Myrcella on the other hand, outright laughed.

ooo

Sansa did not need to be told that the Princess and Elia Sand of Dorne had been good friends growing up. The easy familiarity of them was a clear tell, if nothing else. And the way Myrcella had slipped into that in unfamiliar language with the girl as soon as she opened her eyes told Sansa that Dorne had not been for the princess the way the Red Keep had been for her.

Myrcella introduced them of course and they spoke together for what felt like quite a while, hearing from Elia of all kinds of mischief they had been about while in the Watergardens of Dorne. It had been a relief to see Myrcella so at ease after what had happened not even two hours prior. And even a greater relief that she had woken to find a friendly face she trusted enough, because for all the understanding between herself and the Princess, Sansa knew that there was uncertainty Myrcella harboured in regard to her, and that she would never trust Sansa completely. At least not yet.

Trust seemed to be a tricky, slippery thing. And unfortunately, Arya had taken very good care in shattering it completely before it even breathed its first breath, where Myrcella and her brother were concerned.

Sansa was not completely aware of the reasons why she seemed to care. For all intents and purposes she should not. For all the amounts of times she had been hurt by Myrcella's family, her mad brother, her cruel mother… by all that was right in the world, Sansa should very well feel vengeful. And she did. Sometimes she thought she would choke on all the hatred she bore that family. But she would be a fool to discharge it on Myrcella, and Sansa was no fool. And she could not quite readily forget how the last months at court it had been so easy to hide, because it was Myrcella had had her brother's attention, it was _her_ he preferred to torment and if, by any chance, Sansa managed to catch his attention, Myrcella would divert it every chance she could. Why had she done that Sansa did not know even now, and did not need to know. They never spoke of it and Sansa was sure they never would. It was best that way. She didn't need reasons. Myrcella hadn't needed them then, and Sansa would not need them now to repay her. As hard as it was to believe that Myrcella had done what she had done out of the kindness of her heart, Sansa did believe it, because never had she been asked for anything in return.

Sansa had left Myrcella in Elia Sand's company and that other woman's, Obara was her name. She was a hulking giant by all accounts, very much alike her mother's sworn shied, Briene of Tarth, in body (but not quite as unpleasant of face, admittedly) loud and brash and dressed as a warrior (and if Myrcella had not introduced her as a lady perhaps Sansa would have thought her simply as a more feminine-faced soldier). But for all the brashness and lack of any kind of delicacy in her manner, the giant woman had taken Myrcella's face in her hands so carefully, and kissed both her cheeks, looking at the princess with lively eyes that bore clear affection. And when both the dornish women had dragged the princess away speaking of surprises and a gift they had brought her, Sansa had let them go and went looking for her brother, believing (hoping) that he would want to hear that the Princess was well.

She found him in his tent… along with mother and Arya. All three of them were silently staring at each other and Sansa could tell simply by how mother was sitting at Arya's side, holding her hand that she had taken Arya's defences throughout all this. Sansa sighed. She could not bring herself to resent that. Arya may have been in the wrong but the moment she felt she had everyone against her she was liable to do something even stupider. Or at least, the Arya Sansa had known would behave that way. This Arya was foreign sometimes.

Sansa sat at her brother's left and only then did his eyes leave Arya's and came to rest on hers.

"The Princess is with Elia and Obara Sand of Dorne. She begged me to tell you that she is quite well, apologises for the lack of self-possession she displayed and for the inconvenience it caused, and thanks you for the care you showed her."

Robb's wince was a relief. Sansa was not sure whether her brother should trust the princess or not, but that he was the Robb she remembered, that he took no pleasure in someone's pain and fear… yes, that was a relief indeed.

Sansa felt her brother take a deep breath (and didn't miss her mother's eyeroll either).

"Does the Princess wish for Dacey to be replaced with someone else?"

Sansa couldn't help the small smile, though there was no humour in it. "No. On the contrary, when Dacey apologised for not being there to protect her, Myrcella was very firm in settling that there was nothing for her to apologise, and that she would have no other guard but Dacey herself."

Robb frowned. "You think she was being sincere?"

Sansa thought on that carefully. "I think so, but even if not, I stand by what I said: if you put knights – or any man for that matter - to guard her she will not feel protected, she'll feel threatened."

_As would I_. But Sansa did not say that. She doubted she even needed to say it aloud. The spark of dark anger in Robb's eyes the first time she had suggested it had been enough to know that her brother already knew, with vagueness befitting the imagination, why Sansa would say such a thing.

"Very well." Robb sighed and then looked at Arya again. "Tonight you will apologise to the princess." He said then with a tone that let Sansa know this had been thoroughly discussed before. he sounded tired somewhat.

"I will _not_." Arya said between gritted teeth and leaned a little forward. It was only mother's grip around her shoulders that kept her seated.

"Arya…" Catelyn started gently, but Arya interrupted.

"I will _never_ apologise to a Lannister for anything. _Never_. I'd rather die first. And _you_!" Arya's steel eyes found Sansa's and held. "You, going about her, fretting like a mother hen."

"Arya!"

Mother's tone was harsh, but Arya's anger was stronger. Her eyes were shiny and if Sansa hadn't known better she would have thought her sister was three breaths away from tears.

"I can still hear you screaming at the steps of Baelor's sept, you know. I've heard plenty of men die screaming and it was always with your voice they screamed. They crippled Bran, killed father _right in front of you! _She is a _Lannister,_ and you act as if she's your friend!"

Robb was about to speak, but Sansa stopped him with a hand on his forearm. The air in the tent was so tense that one could cut it with a knife if one wanted, but Sansa had eyes only for her sister.

"You were there?" she asked, slowly. They had never dared speak of his. Sansa saw Arya swallow thickly. The tension vibrated. It felt as if nobody was breathing.

"Yes."

Sansa felt her heartbeat in her throat. "Did you… did…"

"No." Arya said, sparing Sansa having to ask what she had meant to. The relief was so palpable in her that it was only then Sansa realized she had been barely breathing since her sister started speaking.

Sansa nodded.

"You want revenge. I can understand that." and she could. Gods knew she could understand it even if she didn't like it. "But taking it on Myrcella is not just wrong; it's unjust. She is as blameless here as I was in the Red Keep."

Arya scoffed, the distain a live, coiling thing in her, reflected in her eyes. Sansa couldn't help but smile at the sight of it, and it was that that surprised her sister most.

"You don't care. I can understand that too. I thought I didn't care either." Every day, in a thousand different ways she had hated them, hated for years until she had grown so exhausted in it that she thought she had nothing but hatred to hold on to, when flinging herself down from the highest tower of that dreadful place seemed like the best escape.

"When news of Jamie Lannister's capture reached the Red Keep some ten months ago, the queen was furious. So she suggested to her son that they take retribution on the available Stark in court." She could still see Cercei's sneer, her monstrous son's laughter still rang in her ears. "Joffrey had me kneel at the foot of the iron throne as the kingsguard tore my dress. '_If you want your brother to hear, you must scream a little louder'_ he said, and had them beat at with the flat of their swords till my back bled. The throne room was full, the noblest people of King's landing there… _nobody_ dared breathe a word of protest. Not even when that maggot pointed a crossbow at me and started firing." She had just closed her eyes and prayed he struck true, just once, so that the pain could end. "He had no intention of killing me, but that didn't really matter, I thought I was going to die that day."

Her voice had been steady and flat throughout the entire time, but horror-struck faces stared back at her. Sansa noted the tears on her mother's face, still in frozen shock. She saw the violence in Robb's eyes like it was a storm bruin, but throughout the tale she had been careful to keep her hand on his arm, her thumb moving back and forth, reminding him of calmness. Arya was staring at her with the same intensity, but her expression was closed, guarded.

"When Myrcella was brought to court, it was her turn, because she had lived in Dorne for years and now Dorne was fighting the crown. Believe it or not, her punishments were no less severe than mine. And yet she was the only one that would ever dare speak in my defence, even when the most she could do was divert attention from me and to herself. It was more than anyone else ever did for me in that place."

Sansa took a deep breath and stood up, hand folded in front of her, eyes never leaving her sister.

"What you did was a cruel prank that made that girl fear for her life. You did it because you could and because she was there, even though she had done nothing to deserve it - _that_ is why you're going to apologise." Sansa felt the words pour out of her, calm as still water even as her voice hardened with by the torrent of emotions in her breast. Arya was not looking at her, but Sansa knew she was listening to every word. That she had not interrupted yet was proof enough that some of it was getting through. "You're going to do it in public, where everyone can see you, so that nobody has the lethal idea to do imitate you. And you are ever going to do such a thing again, because it would mean the end of a peace won with thousands of lives and neither your vengeance nor mine is worth that much. I am going to be Myrcella's friend and you are going to leave her be, because anything less would make our father ashamed of us."

Arya had the decency to flinch but she still wouldn't look up to meet her eyes. "They would never show us the same fairness, and you know that better than I do. Why should I?" she murmured, her fingers worrying the hemline of her sleeve.

Sansa's anger finally erupted to the surface, but she gripped it with her fingertips, breath after breath, until her emotions were within her grasp again. "Because we are _not_ Lannisters! We are Starks of Winterfell. That is reason enough."

Arya got up and walked away but not before muttering an unwilling 'Alright' before she passed past the flaps of the tent. Sansa sighed, feeling exhaustion settle in her bones hat had no right of being there. The day had just started, it was not even midday yet… and yet she wished for nothing more than a bed in this moment. All the excitement that had started with the break of dawn had tired her out. She could only imagine how Myrcella must be feeling.

"Sansa…"

She looked around to her brother, only to be met with his pained expression. The guilt and pain she saw there was staggering for a moment an it took her a couple of blinks to understand what this was about.

"Oh Robb, don't." she put her hand on his cheek gently. She had wanted him to come save her for so long. At one point or another she had even resented him, hated as she had hated the whole world. But in that moment, she could feel nothing but love for him.

"I didn't tell that pretty tale to make you feel guilty, brother. It's in the past, and it's going to stay there. I'm…I'm well now…" but even to her own ears that sounded uncertain, so she tried a simpler truth. "I'm going to be well." And this time Sansa smiled and it was real. "I'm with my family again, the North is free and we are going home. Everything will be well."

Her brother breathed deep and closed his eyes before he leaned down to kiss her brow (and her heart broke a little bit because that is what father used to do so very often and Sansa missed him with an ache that sometimes was a physical pain) But even in the middle of that emotional moment she could not miss the regret on Robb's face, the darkening of his eyes as if he was steeling himself from a truth he did not want her to be burdened yet. Sansa had heard talk of other dangers coming from the north, but she knew little of it. Nobody did and Robb spoke of it to nobody but his most trusted.

_All will be well_, Sansa told herself. She told herself now what she used to tell herself all those days in the Red Keep for courage. _Winter is coming for us all, but I am a Stark. I carry the north in my breast and wherever I go, winter calls me home_1_. I'm not afraid._

o

TBC:::

1 Whenever I go, winter calls me home' – not mine, I found it written in a poster of Sansa that I found on the internet. I didn't have defined authorship, but credit (and disclaimer) where it's due.


	4. Sands of Dorne

_AN: THANK YOU to all reviewers, to all those who favorited and are following this story.I know its a slow one and that every chapter is enormous, but I like spending time inside these character's heads. Hope you like :)_

_I just want to point out that I am very much aware this story only skims the surface of these characters and events, that some of the alternations i have made hardly make sense and that the characterisation is shallow in comparison to that of GRR Martin. I am writing as a distraction because i can't seem to get a singe word into the old stories i had been working on for some time, over an old draft that had been sitting in my computer for ages. I hope i don't dissapoint._

_o_

_4. Sands of Dorne_

'_The words 'I am' are potent words; be careful what you hitch them to.  
The thing you're claiming has a way of reaching back and claiming you.'_

_- AL Kitselman -_

It seemed funny to think of it now, but Myrcella had been terrified of the Sand Snakes once. Oh, they weren't any less frightening now, but Myrcella was not so helpless as she'd once been. She'd had to live with them and be exposed to them quite a lot, and they had been instructed not to cause her harm but she soon learned that the Snakes had a loose interpretation of the concept of 'harm', and their own ways of putting commands to action. They had seemed so cruel to her at first and perhaps they even had been, but Myrcella had learned a great deal from them, even when she despised them; and learned even more, once she started to like them.

Perhaps she had not always been happy in Dorne, and sometimes it had been quite literally hell to live there (especially those couple of times when she had brushed against death and scented its shroud), but most of the time, she had been free as she never had been before, a difference Myrcella had appreciated fully only once she was sent back to King's Landing. It had been a strange form of punishment to go back to being a _lady_ after having tasted the fierceness and seductive power of being only whatever you chose to be. Silk dresses had never felt more like irons.

Dorne had taught Myrcella many things, but the one she prized above all was the lesson of independence. Not the kind her mother so craved, the kind that was actually power and that Cercei fought tooth and nail to rip from the hands of men. Myrcella had learned a truer meaning of freedom: independence of the mind, of the heart, of the body and of her own will. She learned it from women that practiced it with every breath: the snakes and princess Arianne among them. Dornish women were taught obedience, respect and fulfilling the duty to their houses… and also that they were not second to their husbands, brothers, sons. They were only as good as their god given gifts allowed them to be. Myrcella had found that if you grew to believe that, to know it to be true in the depths of your heart and mind, then nobody could make you feel any less than what you were, not without your tacit permission1.

As she rode side by side with Sansa and Dacey, Myrcella watched as further ahead in the column, Obara and Elia argued about something or other while Nymeria looked at them and rolled her eyes from time to time, exchanging a word or two with Tyene (the only one of the Snakes that wore a dress even now) who, as always, looked like the Maid made flesh. Myrcella was too far from them to hear what they spoke of, but couldn't look at them without smiling.

She had been so happy when she saw Elia yesterday morning and her happiness only increased when Obara had found them. The tall woman had greeted her as loudly as ever, yelling across the camp _'Well, well, if it isn't the bastard princess herself!'_ as loudly as she always did, (but thankfully in dornish) and then embraced her hard enough to pop half her ribs, held her face between those wide, rough palms as she kissed her ruined cheek deliberately, right on her scar that marred it so, and then the other one.

Obara, the warrior. Hard as rock and just as strong. Quick as a snake and with a temper that had always reminded Myrcella of her mother, though she had never said that out loud or there would have been blood. Once Myrcella had thought her the most dangerous woman to have ever breathed, but she learned soon enough that Obara was quite safe once you learned to be quick enough to duck the hilt of her spear. She liked to practice, she always said. '_If you don't teach yourself to fight back, you might end up being second princess to be raped and murdered someday_'. Obara had never minced her words and in time, Myrcella had learned to be grateful for it.

'_I've brought you back a gift'_ she'd said, just a few moments after their greeting and practically dragged her to the dornish part of the army. Myrcella's heart had almost burst from happiness when she saw what Obara meant. She had brought back Sarabi, the Sand Steed that Myrcella had been gifted with years ago; the same that she had ridden across the Red Waste when the Darkstar had been chasing her down. Myrcella was convinced that that beautiful lean horse had saved her life that day – his swift legs were the reason she was escaped with only a scar on her cheek and a mangled ear. Had it not been for Sarabi, she would be missing a head too. The animal's fine coat of gold shone with brilliant health even in the dim grey sky of the north and when Myrcella had petted his white mane and beautiful narrow head, he had huffed and nudged her shoulder gently, and she could swear he had recognised her and been as happy to see her as Myrcella had been to see him. She had hugged Obara again then, much to the uncomfortableness of the older woman, and thanked her over and over until Obara had pushed her away with a '_Enough already_' that was admittedly, spoken rather more softly than Obara had probably meant it to.

Lady Nym had greeted Myrcella as elegantly as always, giving her a kiss as light as a butterfly on each cheek. Tyene had embraced her with such grace that it made dancers look clumsy, and handed her a silken shawl that she had embroidered herself, she said, with a stag and a wolf, and the sun of Dorne uniting them. Irony was Tyene's favourite weapon, and backed with those wide innocent eyes, she could look the picture of naivety if Myrcella hadn't known better. Of course, the antidote to that was Elia and the way she rolled her eyes or snorted at it all, making Myrcella smile.

The Sand Snakes, Myrcella thought with a smile. Never had there been a more apt name.

As Myrcella looked them now, she realized that she saw home in Elia's smile and Obara's booming voice and perhaps that was why she was resting easy, why she felt so warm in their presence. They were something she knew and that she had missed. It was not about good and bad, it was about the familiar. She did not feel quite so alone anymore and the incident with the wolf seemed long ago even though it had happened only that morning. It became something that the Snakes had distracted her from (thankfully!); even Lady Nym and Tyene were a welcome sight, thought Myrcella had never been able to be truly close with either. And that was when it occurred to Myrcella that perhaps she had made her home in the sand and had not even realized until she was taken from there. What right had she had to feel so at home in Sunspear, nobody could possibly understand. Not many liked her there, and even fewer enjoyed her company. Most had delighted in trying to make her life harder with petty difficulties, and almost everyone had harboured her some resentment or another for imagined slights, or even real ones.

But she had had friends there as well, friends she had loved and who she believed had loved her back well enough to look for her after she was taken, friends who had missed her when she was gone and would have mourned her had she been dead. Few enough were these friends, Elia and Obara were the only ones Myrcella thought of as real, but that was no matter. Love was not a question of numbers. Love such as this that she felt was absolute: it either existed, or it did not. And when it _did_…

"They are… very different from what I imagined them to be."

Myrcella turns her head to Sansa, gives her a questioning look. "How did you imagine them?" She asks with a smile.

Sansa shrugs. "I'm not sure I imagined them at all, really. But they are so…"

Sansa lacks for a clear word and Myrcella feels her smile widen considerably. She could understand Sansa's hesitation. It was very hard to find one single word for the Oberyn's daughters. They are all so different from one another, and yet even those that know nothing of them could feel the string that ran invisible through those women, binding them together. Besides, it's difficult to even pinpoint the true nature of each of the Sand siblings, since they never show the full of it. Except for Obara, who is blunt as the swing of a war-hammer in everything she does, the Snakes never like to show the whole of the truth about themselves, since all of them have a predilection for surprising people. What you see is never what you get, where they are concerned.

"They are one of a kind." Myrcella says simply, and Sansa turns a contemplative eye to her.

"You were very happy to see them, weren't you?"

Myrcella smiled and nodded.

"Especially Lady Obara. I never would have thought you to like her so much. She is very… well, she is rather rough. Not at all like you."

Myrcella laughed, amused to no end by the hesitation in Sansa's tone.

"Oh yes, she is all edges, but we get along well enough." Myrcella responded, and her hand went to pat Sarabi's neck softly without her even being aware of it. The action drew Sansa's eye, and inevitably her curiosity as well. Being the lady that she was, Sansa did not ask, but Myrcella could see the interest in her eyes, so she indulged her.

"Sarabi was chosen from Lady Obara's herd, and gifted to me on my twelfth nameday by Prince Trystane of Sunspear." Myrcella said evenly, focusing only on the good, the happiness she'd felt back then.

Sansa's reddish lips formed a small '_Oh'_ Of understanding and she nodded. "He is a beautiful animal. Even I can see that." She said then.

Myrcella smiled. "Yes he is. Obara was very kind to have brought him back to me. We've had all kinds of adventures, Sarabi and I."

She'd have to take care with him, Myrcella thought as she watched Sarabi's breath come out of his nose and turn to vapour from the cold. He was a Sand Steed, bred to survive the stifling hotness of the desert as well as the sharp cold of the mountains, but not even the harshest mountain-winter in Dorne could compare to the cold of the north. If he did not do well up where they were doing, Myrcella had already decided that she would send him back to Dorne with the Snakes. She wanted him with her, but she did not want him to suffer needlessly.

"Adventures? That sounds exiting."

Sansa's voice distracted Myrcella from her thoughts and she turned to the princess with wide eyes of surprise for a moment. She thought about riding harshly across the desert, death on her heel, thought about Sarabi's pearly-white mane so soaked in her blood that that it had taken several washings for it to get out…

It took a couple of blinks for Myrcella to get hold of herself and smile. She knew it looked strained, as she knew that Sansa could probably tell by the sheer look on her face that those adventures had not been of the happy kind at all.

"Lady Tyene seems like a very sweet and gentle lady." Sansa said, somewhat hastily, and Myrcella was against surprised by the princess' perceptiveness. The diversion worked – her dark thoughts were banished, but only because she was amused at Sansa's choice of distraction: if one wanted light-hearted, Tyene looked like the perfect choice, but few knew how that was part of the deception.

_Tyene, the sweet summer strawberry…_

"Yes, she seems that way, doesn't she. Pure as the first snow of winter." -while being as treacherous as the quicksands of Dorne. Sansa caught the irony in Myrcella's voice and raised an eyebrow, begging for explanation.

Sansa leaned in close. "But _look_ at her. She seems so…"

Myrcella smiled, honest amusement in her face as she looked over at Sansa. "You underestimate her. Don't. She is a master when it comes to poisons, you'd never even feel the prickle if she decides she wants you dead. But you'd still die." Myrcella looked out into the horizon, thinking back to the heat of the desert and the dornish sun on her skin. "If you look into her eyes long enough, you'll see the viper in her too."

Sansa looked shocked for a short moment, and then pensive for several others. Myrcella could understand why. Looking at Tyene with her clear azure gown, so modest and simple, with her pale hair and clear eyes, it was so easy to mistake her for the most modest and gentle of maids. Myrcella had never known Tyene's true nature despite the long years living with her. The only thing she did know for sure about the blonde viper was her father's daughter and the most treacherous of the Snakes because she was the best liar.

"You… don't like her, do you?" Sansa tried, looking at Myrcella long, trying no doubt to pick apart her thoughts.

"Oh, on the contrary, I like her very much." Myrcella said with a brilliant smile that no doubt confused the northern princess. But then she decided that she would speak truthfully.

"She saved my life." And Myrcella traced her scar, and watched understanding down in Sansa's blue eyes. "She stitched me up, and took care of me. Made sure the wound did not get infected and that I lived through it. She was my healer for three weeks, hardly leaving my side. I owe her a great deal - and half my face as well, because had it not been for her, this scar would look much worse than it does now."

Sansa nodded, and kept her silence for a long time, watching straight ahead as they rode. It was almost an hour or so later that the princess thought about continuing the conversation and Myrcella knew her well enough by now to understand that this was her way. Sansa's mind was never quiet and even when she kept her peace, her mind picked apart any problem it faced carefully and in solitude. Perhaps it was the result of having only herself for a confidante for long years while she was kept in the Red Keep.

"Dorne must be so very different from the rest of the seven kingdoms." Sansa said, and there was no judgment in her tone, only a strange contemplation.

"It is different is some ways and just the same in others. But women have more advantages there than they do anywhere else. They are not as free as they should like, but they are undoubtedly freer than in the rest of the seven kingdoms." But then again it was also true that even in Dorne, the Sand daughters of Oberyn Martell were a rarity. "But the Snakes owe their way of life to their father: He wanted them to be able to take care of themselves and encouraged independence where other fathers teach obedience."

"And you were raised with them." Sansa observed in a friendly open-ended manner, looking at Myrcella in a curious way that made the princes smile.

Myrcella laughed, delighted.

"I'm not one of the Sand Snakes Sansa. But I learned much from them, that is true. They taught me how to survive the world."

Sansa looked at her for a long moment, and Myrcella knew that something was turning behind those blue eyes. It was her turn to raise her brows in question.

"What is it?"

"I was just remembering how you looked when you came back to court." Sansa said slowly, confirming Myrcella's suspicion. Myrcella left the silence lay, waiting for what Sansa would chose to say. There were many ways one could describe her return to court, depending on what kind of eyes had witnessed it.

"You looked like nothing could touch you." Sansa said, her eyes darkening for a fraction, her expression grave as she went through memories of the past. Her smile was small and thin but her eyes were so focused that Myrcella had to wonder how nobody had noticed the steel in this girl, her incredible grit. (perhaps that had been why Sansa always looked down, never meeting anyone's eye, while she was in King's Landing.) "Even when it was horrible, you still looked like you were above it all."

_That's only pride, Sansa_, Myrcella wanted to say. She had been stubborn because her life had been the only thing she had had to lose and her life was precisely what Joffrey would never take away from her. She had been so angry at him, at all of them. Angry enough to be reckless, thoughtless enough to fight back. It was sick and twisted, but after years and years of not seeing him and he not seeing her, it seemed that Joffrey could not look at her and see a sister anymore. It made her stomach roll whenever she thought of her parents in that light. She could never understand it, but she refused to judge her mother and father, even when she most resented them - the whole world did just fine in that without her. But thinking of Joffrey turning that way, having _those_ kind of thoughts about her and feeling somehow justified in having them, that unleashed nothing but violence in Myrcella. Violence and disgust at her brother and mother and father. It made her feel tainted to her bones, in a way that no scalding bath could ever cleanse. And they had made her that way. The two people that gave her life, gave her a curse to bear as well: a life borne from such twisted, selfish love could only be a half life - the world would see to that, and it had, repeatedly.

But this was too heavy a topic for this moment. And it always would be.

"I still think that Lady Tyene looks too delicate and pious to be truly dangerous." Sansa said, instantly drawing Myrcella way from her dark thoughts – something for which the princess was immensely grateful, which was why she so readily took to the light tone Sansa had set and smiled at the Winter Princess.

"Oh that's the beauty of it. Nobody expects her to pull out to dagger and slice their balls off. And she does it with such grace too."

Sansa looked at her with wide eyes for a moment before she started to laugh, drawing heads their way. When Myrcella noticed that the King too had been watching, she looked away immediately, the smile feeling frozen on her lips.

ooo

Myrcella had been expecting the outburst. Obara was nothing if not aggressive and direct and Myrcella knew her friend too well not to notice the anger, the _fury_, growing in those dark eyes of hers, swelling like a storm at every slight. And Myrcella knew that she was not angry at the men who disrespected her or muttered behind her back loud enough for any to hear. It was with Myrcella's passiveness to all of it that Obara was furious. _'Your 'pretty princess' face'_ she used to call it. _'Do you think it will ever save you? Do you think the world will care you have a royal cunt when it tramples you?' _

Back then, Myrcella had not known there was more inside her than that, she had not had claws and sharp teeth to protect herself with. Now she did, but she held back. And that was what was driving Obara to a near rage that boiled so close to the surface Myrcella was wondering how Obara didn't scald the people that passed her by. Admittedly, all those who had even an inkling of her lethal temper stayed well away, but even knowing how lethal Obara's temper could be Myrcella didn't shy from it; she would not be cowered because there was not even an ounce of shame inside her that Myrcella might wish to hide. She was perfectly aware of what she was doing, which was why she met the heat of that fire chin-up whenever Obara's eyes clashed with hers and Myrcella warned the warrior woman silently to be still, to be quiet, to let it pass.

It had been three days since the incident with the wolf, Arya Stark had apologised stiffly in plain view of almost half the camp, the King had enquired after her health and Sansa divided her time between her family and Myrcella while Myrcella was always in Elia's company and (now more rarely) Obara's.

One night a faceless soldier had made a bawdy jape about a girl and a missing ear (a tired one, truthfully, it hadn't even been that funny) and Obara's eyes had burned her_. 'Do something_!' that look screamed. _'_Do_ something, don't stand there, useless. Slit their throats, cut their cocks, shove 'em down their mouths till they choke on 'em!'_. But Myrcella kept walking by, pretended not to hear, not to see, a smile on her face as she traded japes back and forth with Elia. Obara had walked off into the night without a word, fuming up like boiling water, that angry stride of hers setting her apart even here among men of war. She had gotten into a fight after, broke a few bones and a couple of noses. Myrcella had known that was not the end of it: Obara was not one to waste her energy on people who were not the target of her rage. And in this instance, the target was the mutilated princess that the soldiers made fun of.

The eruption came on a crisp morning when Myrcella was riding with Sansa and Elia, Dacey never too far behind them. Myrcella had been listening to Elia tell her about her sisters and how Dorea had all the makings of warrior, when Obara rode close to them so recklessly fast that it spooked their horses. By her side Dacey tensed immediately, but she didn't draw steel and for that Myrcella was grateful.

"Why do you do this?" Obara asked trough gritted teeth, biting the words together like she wanted to rip the syllables to shreds. Thankful for small mercies, Myrcella was relieved that at least, Obara had chose to have this conversation in dornish. "_Why_ do you not react to them."

"Because I must show care in all I do here and tread lightly, at least for now." _Until I know who I'm dealing with_.

Myrcella spoke calmly and for the same calmness that answered her, Obara became twice more enraged. Her stallion reacted, twisting his neck to the way Obara twisted the rains in her hands.

"Release the reins Obara, you're hurting the poor beast."

Obara's sneer was painful to watch. "Oh you feel for the poor beast, but not for yourself? They _humiliate_ you, speak of you like some common whore with no honour and you walk on by, like a fool. You think your grace and charm will do you good here? You think they care about that horseshit?"

"They don't. I know that, but I can't just-"

Obara growled at her, barring teeth like they were daggers. "Then _why_? Why do you hide behind that ridiculous, _useless_ façade?" and she paced her horse forward, her black stallion's neigh making Sarabi retreat a couple of paces. Myrcella held up her hand to stop Dacey from doing anything but form the corner of her eyes she could see that they were attracting too much attention, and her heart started fluttering behind the iron grip she held on her temper.

"Being the princess never did you much good in Dorne, it won't work here among these northerners either. They will never respect you if you keep being so _weak_! They will only despise you more for it, just like I did."

"Obara, stop this at once." Elia's voice came, the sternness in it very alike to Obara's own, but Myrcella knew that would do no good.

"What would you have me do, Obara?" because this was the question Obara most wanted her to ask, so Myrcella gave in, if only so that she could be done with this as soon as she possibly could.

The moment the words left her lips, Obara's feral grin stretched her face into a bloodthirsty expression that Myrcella knew well. "Show them you are fire and venom! That you'll set their winter aflame! _Show them who you really are_!"

"I _can't_." and this time Myrcella's steel was a match for Obara's flame. "This is not Dorne and I cannot afford to think only as a warrior here."

"I doubt they will hate you with any more passion than you were hated in Dorne."

"I was nobody's _wife_ in Dorne!" Myrcella snapped, unable to control her voice rising, even if it was just barely. She took a deep breath to even out her nerves and straightened a little more on Sarabi's back. But not for a moment did she retreat her eyes from Obara's and faced that scorching anger with her coolest determination. "Do you have any idea what he could do to me? If something about me, anything, offends him even more than my presence here already does? He is the _King_, and he is to be my _husband_… he could rape and torment me to his liking to the end of my days-" and there it was, the blow that drained even Obara's gorgeous olive skin of colour, proof of how much of an animal she was being speaking of this, but Myrcella had to shock some sense into Obara soon or she would go on until it was too late. "-and nobody would ever lift a finger to stop him. I am on my own here and I always will be, so don't speak to me of weakness. This is not some pageant to be won, this is my life. Until I know how to tread around him, I will tread lightly and make my way with wits, and not with fire and steel."

The silence that fell was gritting, it was a horrible thing because it stretched. Dacey looked at them, confusion awash on her face and Elia had gone as pale as death. Even Sansa seemed terribly tense as she watched between Obara and Myrcella like she expected one of them to jump on the other's throat.

But Obara would do no such thing. As if it was a live animal that Obara carried around her back, Myrcella could see her temper receding, cooling.

"You fear him…" the words were strange coming from Obara's lips, and Myrcella could imagine how she was struggling with hat idea – the words themselves came haltingly from her, as if she was testing their constitution on her tongue. Fearing a man for the simple sake that he was a man was incomprehensible to Obara, and rightly so, but Myrcella felt sure that her warrior friend was missing the point: she did not dread Robb Stark because he was a man, but because he was _King_, and Kings often got it in their heads that there was nothing they could want that they could not have. Experience had taught Myrcella that that meant only woe for their wives…

"Well you're wrong." Obara said then, with much more conviction.

Myrcella felt the first signs of tiredness. Gods, but Obara could drain you of energy in five minutes flat. "Obara…"

"I have fought and bled beside that man you will call husband and though he not Trystane, he is not Fat Robert either, and he sure as fuck is not your vicious cunt of a brother."

_No, he is Ned Stark's son,_ Myrcella thought, _and I am Cercei Lannister's daughter. An uglier match could not have been made even in the deepest pit of the seventh hell_.

"And believe me when I say, he will like you better when you show some spirit. Northerners are suspicious of too much charm, you ought to know that by now."

_I do know_, she thought despite herself. But it was something else worrying her. Myrcella frowned, heartbeat clapping in her breast. She knew all too well that smile that was stretching Obara's lips. It wasn't the feral grin of death. This was worse.

"Whatever you think you're going to do, don't do it." She warned.

Obara leaned a bit forward. "And how do you propose to stop me?"

"Please don't."

But just when Myrcella expected Obara to say something else, she spurned her stallion and trotted away from her and towards the front of the column.

"Your grace!" Obara's voice carried like a thunderclap in Myrcella's ears and it sent Myrcella's blood into ice that scratched at her veins. The King's company had been so close too, close enough that Obara's next good-humoured words carried to Myrcella's ears and she thought her heart stopped truly this time. "Has anyone ever told you that the dornish can fly, your grace?"

_Gods, what is she doing?_

But the King turned towards Obara and there was an amused smile on his face, one that Myrcella had never seen before.

"Myrcella, what is the matter?" Sansa enquired, an edge to her voice that was no fear. It was anger. She was angry with Obara, of course she was. She could not know of course, the details of their conversation.

"Nothing. All is well."

"Please Myrcella. You've turned so pale."

"Have I?"

"Must be the strain of not giving in and throttling Obara when you had the chance Myr." Elia put in with a shaky smile that Myrcella mirrored, if only to appease Sansa a little.

All the while not missing the conversation happening some yards away amidst jest and laughter. Prince Oberyn seemed to support his daughter and they all knew that once the red Viper wanted something there was little that could stand in his way except a natural disaster.

"What was she so angry about? I thought she would strike you." Dacey asked, and Myrcella noticed that it was only now that the warrior Mormont decided it was safe enough to remove her hand from the hilt of her sword.

"Obara would never strike me, Lady Mormont." Myrcella said and there was the kind of assuredness on her tone that left no room for doubt. Obara had never laid a hand on her outside the practice rig. "She was however very cross at me for my passivity to the various jests that the men see fit to pass around every once in a while. I assured her that none of it offended me. Soldiers have their own ways of diverting themselves."

From the corner of her eye, she saw Dacey fidget a little with the reigns.

"Obara does not believe much in patience you see. She thinks it's best to tackle problems head on." Myrcella said with one of her usual smiles. It was an explanation that would satisfy those that did not know Obara very well, and it seemed to work. Sansa relaxed, Dacey straightened in her saddle.

"She does look like the type to prefer more… direct confrontations." Sansa said then, if only to be polite. Elia covered for Myrcella's silence by diving on a tale of Obara's duel with some knight of the Red Mountains and diverting the attention away from Myrcella – who was too busy looking ahead at Obara and the King, hoping against hope that what she feared would not…

It was when Obara turned her triumphant smile to her that Myrcella knew she had been hoping in vain. Obara trotted her horse back and Myrcella inhaled and exhaled slowly.

"There are fields so vast beyond those hills over there, that they reach further than the eye can see. And I want to outrace the wind. What do you say?"

The challenge was there in those dark eyes and Myrcella cursed in her head. Of all the asinine things to concoct …

Why was it that Obara was one of the few people that were actually capable of appealing to Myrcella's vanity in a way that she could not say no to? It was most troublesome, especially now. Especially when offered was the possibility of something Myrcella loved doing, and something she was so good at, after days and days of boredom and slow marching.

But she had cautioned herself towards patience…

Obara saw exactly what was the seed of her conflict.

"Don't you trust me, Myr?" she asked softly, so softly that it shocked all those about her, with a small smile that made her harsh face look almost sweet.

…_he will like you better when you show some spirit._

"I do trust you."

Obara's grin was instantaneous. "Then trust me. Come."

Obara spurred her stallion and Myrcella didn't think about it anymore. She followed.

ooo

He saw them ride, dethatching themselves from the main column and towards the fields ahead. Saw that they had shed their cloaks and extra weight off the saddle, wrapped shawls around their noses and mouths so that the cold air of the north wouldn't chill their lungs. They aligned side by side and then the real speed started to show, when they started to push their horses faster and faster and even as they rode away Robb still heard the sound of their laughter in his ears.

They were very strange, those women. Proud and defiant, but that did not mean Robb did not enjoy watching them ride downhill and then across the plains, pushing each other for a win. He could easily recognise Obara – she was the one that spurned her horse with a rod so hard that the animal would soon find himself a bloody side. '_The dornish can fly, your grace. We ride the wind'_ she'd said, that cocksure grin on her face. And what could a man say to that?

Lady Tyene's pale hair was easily recognisable even with that scarf around her head. But then he saw a second flash of gold, and no, it was not from one of the horse's coat, it was the rider and that was when all lightness left him. He thought to himself '_no it can't be_'… but one look behind him and he saw Sansa standing alone, watching the race with fascination and a touch of fright and he knew that '_yes, yes it is_' even before Dacey met his eyes with an apology – she had been just coming to notify him it seemed.

Robb snapped his eyes towards the race, found that horse with a coat of pale gold and narrowed his gaze at it. She was down there in the vast plains, riding like a shade out of the gates of hell, and even catching up to Obara's black stallion, the animals head to head until she managed to surpass it, and then gain and gain distance as she went, horse and rider a blur. He watched, and felt the prickle on anxiety in his breast. One tiny mistake, a heel not positioned well enough, a little shift, a misplaced rock, and she'd fall and break her neck and then it would be hell. Had she not been thinking about that when she decided that she wanted to show everyone the meaning of haste2? Irritation flared within him more strongly, but Robb controlled it. He was being unreasonable, that voice inside him whispered, one that usually sounded like his mother. _Have some sense Robb, she would not engage into such activity if she were not proficient at it_.

And she was, proficient at it that is. Oh hells, he might as well admit the full of it: the girl could be part horse for all the skill she had! And it was obvious she liked the speed and danger of it. Nobody quite sane would, but _she_ did… And there the surprise - not because she was capable of that kind of ability, but that she would _enjoy_ such a thing. The princess had not seemed to him like someone that would like the wind ruining her hair, or anything involving even minor perspiration. But then again, he had little to no idea what went on underneath that royal flesh of hers. She so rarely acted like a real person that one could be surprised the wind could move her hair out of place at all.

But he'd just been proven wrong after all. There was a person under there and he'd known that – found it out in a very unpleasant way just a few days ago when his carelessness brought her to inconsolable tears. The memory still made something in him shrink a tiny bit, but it was hard to concentrate on that when even from a distance her huge grin was visible, the colour on her cheeks high and some messy curls that had escaped her braid were framing her face like a wild halo. One look at her from head to foot and Robb found himself wondering how come he had never noticed that underneath that heavy fur-lined cloak, the princess of the Iron Throne dressed like a dornish rider, with their characteristically loose breeches tucked in thick high boots and long overcoat that split down the middle. Those were chinks in her armour, and from between them felt that he was looking at the girl he was to marry for the first time, instead of seeing a shade at some far shore, hidden away from him by politeness and manners.

Obara said something to her and she threw her head back and laughed – he heard it, they were getting closer; her laughter full and careless, it made her sound every bit as young as she was and completely at odds with her dignified bearing and composure. But Obara didn't seem to appreciate the princes' mirth (Robb could only presume it was at her own expense): she swung that spurning rod at the princesses head, perhaps a little too fast to be good-natured – no surprise there, Obara was no such thing – and instead of ducking her head, the Princess raised her hand and caught the blow full on her gloved palm, giving the rod a twist and a tug and pulled it out of the Snakes hand and tossed it somewhere out in the grass. That actually made Robb smile for a moment, despite the utter surprise he felt watching it. It was the kind of thing Arya would do. And that look on her face, the mischievous tilt of her smile, and the teasing light in her eyes…

"Congratulations princess." He heard himself say even before he realized he'd made up his mind to speak. But he had, and the second he'd seen how happiness lit her up from within, he decided that he would not speak a single word of reprimand to her… at least not this time.

The princess' smile fell a bit – not on her lips, but it was her eyes that instantly sobered as they always did when they fell on him - and Robb was disappointed to see it, but the glow of happiness did not entirely fade from her.

"Thank you, your grace." She said simply as she fidgeted to get her hair unto some resemblance of order (and it didn't escape his notice that she flattened her hair against that which was supposed to be her missing ear, so that there wouldn't be even the chance of a glimpse). But she was still smiling and she still meant it. It was so different from those other smiles he'd seen on her face that it was a wonder to see.

"Yes, she won. So payment where its due Obara." Lady Nym said as she drew closer, and even she seemed mused by the race. Obara grumbled but she still produced a sheathed blade from nowhere and before and before Robb could even catch the details of it she threw it – _threw it_! – at the princess, who to his relief, caught the thing easily.

"Thank you, my lady." The princess said most courteously, but there was something there, a glint in her eye, that little curl of her lips that made the words into an instant joke.

Obara scowled. "Stop gloating quirt, it doesn't suit you."

"Ah, but you love it so." And now the teasing in the princess' voice was plain as day and Even Robb was smiling at Obara's antics. "After all, you taught me how."

The snakes chuckled and Obara herself rolled her eyes, before Robb felt them on his person, that calculating dark gaze always setting his teeth on edge as if it was an open challenge.

"Isn't it common up here that when someone wins something, they get a crown of flowers or some such nonsense?"

Robb raised a single eyebrow at her but it was the Princess' reaction that most amused him: she almost choked on her breath and covered it up with a cough, but it was plain that she'd rather laugh than hide it.

It was lady Tyene who kept her composure long enough to speak when the others were so busy trying not to laugh in Obara's face. "Forgive her, your grace. Your northern air has played some strange trick on her brain and my sister seems to have forgotten her manners entirely."

The little one snorted. "Or she would have, had she had any to begin with." She muttered close to the princess who pursed her lips even more tightly and looked down.

"Oh to hell with the lot of ya. Except for you your grace, of course." She said then looking at Robb.

"Of course." He said laconically, but didn't keep the smile off his face

He joined his guard and the Snakes joined the second column where they had been before, their jesting getting more rowdy and free as Robb trotted his horse away from them. But when he turned out of impulse, to get a last look at the princess, it was not the back of her golden head he found, but her green eyes instead, staring back into his as if she'd had the same thought. and this time, for the very first time, there was the shadow of a smile on her lips as she looked at him and had he not know better, he would have said that the expression was mirrored in his own face before he turned his head away.

ooo

"I _told_ you! Didn't I tell you?"

"Alright, alright, you told me. What do you want, a shrine in your honour?" but despite the quick reply, Myrcella was smiling from ear to ear, taking care not to meet anyone's eye and instead fixing her gaze on Sarabi's mane. He'd almost smiled at her. It was so faint that had she not been paying attention, she would have missed it, but she was all too familiar with the hard, unyielding expression of his face to ever miss it when it softened even a little bit.

"I'll give him a day at most, before he comes to seek you out." Obara said proudly, as if the whole thing was her own concoction… which it was, admittedly, in the ways that mattered. Had it been up to her, Myrcella would have never given such a spectacle of herself.

"I would show care though, Myr." Lady Nym said in her deep voice that always managed to sound beckoning even to Myrcella's ears. She turned to look Nymeria in the face and found that those rich smoky-grey eyes of hers were fixed and studying her with careful intent. "Do not play it too much like a game; the King has a very keen eye for deception and if you try to play him, he will sense it – and he won't thank you for it."

Myrcella shook her head. "I'm not trying to seduce him or fool him into thinking me something I'm not. I just…" Myrcella took a deep breath and reordered her thoughts. "It would be nice to know him, even a little. Have a conversation with him. And perhaps on my wedding night, I won't feel as if I'm letting a stranger in my bed."

The silence lingered or a few moments, until Obara broke it. "Not to be married to a stranger is the highest of happiness you can hope for…" she said, as if testing the admission, and Myrcella gave her a resigned look. Obara sighed, shaking her head. "Fuck, but I'm glad I'm a bastard and nobody claims otherwise. I don't think I ever thanked my father for that one."

Myrcella laughed and the girls joined in. But it was not a laugh with a light heart. Immediately her brain went into that direction, the one that for pain, she never allowed herself fully to explore. But her thoughts were split open when Obara turned to her, looking at her fiercely and full of purpose, a grin stretching her full lips and giving her the looks of a maniac if only for a moment.

"You know, I can't wait until you have your first child. I want to see you as a mother." She said, stunning Myrcella and even her sisters who fancied themselves used to her abruptness. Obara's grin turned even more wicked. "Somehow I can't imagine you as anything less than feral for your children. Motherhood will suit you beautifully."

And just that was all she said before she spurned her horse forward and tracked away in a gallop, leaving Myrcella wondering how in the seven hells she could respond to someone whose thoughts followed patters that no live being could track.

"You know, I've always thought that too much sun on the head was the cause of these kinds of declarations, but now I know the truth: she's just plain, old-fashioned mad."

Myrcella shared a look with Elia that managed to be serious only for half a moment, before both burst out laughing.

ooo

In the end, she didn't have to wait that long to speak with the King, for he came to find her the very next day.

It was barely even dawn, the sky a pale, unwilling grey as the sun tried to fill the world with daylight even through the stubborn clouds. As was her way, Myrcella had been up the very moment the chill of a new day had settled. She had dressed quietly and snuck out of her tent to where the horses were kept, brush in hand, and dry apples and a couple of carrots in the pockets of her cloak. Sarabi neighed when he caught sight of her shape and she presented him with her offers to keep him quiet. With an ungloved hand she petted him long beautiful face, humming under her breath and speaking to him in whispers about nothing in particular as she brushed him down. The repetitive motion calmed her, always had, and the feel of Sarabi's smooth coat, the warmth of him alive under her hands had always reassured her. She liked taking care of him, liked knowing that whatever being belonged to her was loved and taken care of.

But when Sarabi neighed and shook his head, hitting the ground with his hooves to get her attention, Myrcella knew that she was no longer alone. She spun fast, immediately tense, but then she found herself face to face with the King in the North and for a moment, blankness reigned in her mind. Until she willed her limbs to loosen and her knees to bend so that she could courtesy in front of him.

"Your grace, good morning."

He didn't say anything for a moment and under his stare she felt the cold even more than before. He was such a hard man that it was difficult to connect to him the image she had of the boy waiting with his family in Winterfell's courtyard. When he did speak, he didn't bother at all with the pleasantries though.

"It's barely morning yet. Are you always such an early riser?"

Myrcella was discomfited by his so familiar approach, but only for a moment. She was nothing if not adaptable.

"Yes, I am." She said… and then thought about adding something more, something more personal that would not sound as if it could have come from anyone's lips. "I like the quiet of the early hours."

His face seemed to soften a little, as he considered that, and he stepped closer. Myrcella put her hand on Sarabi's neck to calm him, knowing he would not welcome the King's closeness.

"I imagine the Red Keep does not offer much of quietness, you have to get it where you can."

Myrcella blinked once, stunned. "Y-yes that was…" that was what had always driven her to rise with the very first light and walk about the keep when silence was at its best. But that had been game she had played as a child. And in Sunspear had been the same. "I used to rise early and walk the halls of the main keep before anyone else got about. It felt like an adventure."

And how silly it must sound to him now, or why on earth she had said such a thing… perhaps it had been nerves.

"I have never been too fond of early mornings." He admitted then, one corner of his lips curling upwards in a small smile that softened his features so astonishingly that Myrcella could not help but look at him full in the face for a few moments… and then immediately look down, having caught herself staring. The silence between them would have stretched farther had Sarabi not huffed and shaken his head, making it seem as if he was ready to trample on the King at any moment. Myrcella put both hands on his neck and tried to soothe him, since she could not very well tell the King that he needed to step away.

"He does not like strangers, does he?" he King asked, having stepped away out of his own volition, something for which Myrcella was thankful for. But then she caught the humorous note in his voice and decided to tempt fate.

"Perhaps he can smell your wolf on you." She said with a small smile… and to her immense relief, the lopsided approximation of a smile on the King's face widened a fraction.

"Yes, perhaps." And then, fixing his ice-blue eyes on her, he asked her without much preamble. "Would you walk with me, Princess?"

Myrcella was caught so off guard that she might as well have tripped over is words. She needed to relax and find her centre again, but no matter how hard she tried it seemed that it took the King no effort at all to push her out of balance every time. It was with a strange sense of unease with herself, that Myrcella realized that she felt so ill at ease because even the few words they had exchanged so far had felt a little looser, not quite so ensnared by the bounds of propriety and manners that required her to have a twenty-word vocabulary.

Myrcella realized that she had yet to answer to him, and she felt her cheeks burn with a blush that was surely heating them even in this cold, as the words stumbled out f her mouth, a little too fast for them not to betray her nerves.

"Yes, of course, your grace."

She took his arm and he directed them through the woods near their encampment, his guards following from afar. Though she had imagined this moment, hoped for a chance to get a better feel of who this man was, Myrcella had no idea how to speak to him. her mind felt numb as it rarely had before. Had it been anyone else, she would have known perhaps what to say, or maybe she would not have been so unsure, but this was not just anyone. This was the man that she was supposed to marry and he was the first man that she found herself afraid of after so much time. It had been years since she was a child and the last man she feared was Joffrey. She did not fear him anymore. She had not feared the Darkstar, not even when he slashed her. She had had no time for fear then, only for life and she had fought for it with teeth and nails and rage.

But here she was, with a man that seemed as cold and hard as the lands he was from, and he frightened her, not because he was scary, but because life with him sounded like a barren wasteland - and that was where her fear sparked. She did not want to become her mother, that more than anything was the heart of her dread.

But she reminded herself that she had a little hope. Just a little, a ghost of a smile.

"Are you in the habit of grooming your horse yourself?"

His voice startled her, so long had they been quiet. She had not even seen where he was taking her, so engrossed she had been in her own thoughts. His question felt random, as if he had been trying to find one that would do and finally given up on the obvious, but Myrcella was glad for his choice. Sarabi was a good topic, she could speak of him however much the King wished.

"I… I like taking care of him. He is very well-behaved with me, and I think he likes the sound of my voice."

"Yes, I imagine he would."

Myrcella tried not to look up at him as he said that, it would have been too obvious. But she so wanted to know what he meant by that…

But then again, did it matter?

"Do you always speak to him in dornish?" and then he looked down at her, a frown on his face, one of uncertainty "That was dornish you were speaking, wasn't it?"

Myrcella nodded. "Yes. He is used to taking commands in that language and I doubt he would understand them in the common tongue."

"And the speed he is capable of is remarkable. I have never seen a horse ride so fast. From a distance you were both a blur." He stopped and Myrcella felt his eyes on her, so she looked up to meet them… and found that his scrutiny, even when it was not as coldly appraising as it had been before, was still just as uncomfortable. She was not used to being stared at so boldly and the intensity in his eyes made her skin itch with unease. But she did not look away.

Perhaps even something as innocuous-sounding as horses was not a quiet topic to discuss…

"My compliments to you, princess, for your skill with him."

Myrcella found it hard to swallow. "Thank you, your grace."

There was something in his eyes then, something that made her think he was about to tease her, but it seemed such an impossibility…

"I doubt you learned to ride like that in the Red Keep."

Myrcella snorted softly before she could catch herself and instantly she felt the heat of embarrassment warm her cheeks… again.

Was she to be perpetually red-faced then?

"Forgive me. No I did not." Her mother would truly start spouting wildfire if she ever learned that Myrcella pushed her horse faster than a light trot. "Obara and Elia taught me how to ride desert horses. They are both wonderful horsewomen, much better than I ever will be."

"And yet you won the race yesterday."

"I did, but that is because Sarabi is the fastest horse most have ever seen. I take little credit, just that I am able not to get in his way." Myrcella was quick to explain.

"Sarabi?"

"Yes, that is the name I have given him." and then, after remembering that he could not possibly know, she explained. "It means Dawn."

She saw him nod and then a strange expression came on his face, but she did to know how to read it, nor could she, since she could not very well study him for as long as she liked. Keeping her eyes head seemed a safer option.

"I forget, must I present you with a gift as well for your winning, as Obara suggested?"

Myrcella was too horrified to catch the teasing in his tone.

"Of course not! She was speaking in jest, your grace. I would never presume…"

But then, as the words left her lips she caught his expression and realized he was speaking lightly, even though his tone did not give to it. It was in his eyes, Myrcella was surprised to find, that most of his humour concentrated. And she would gladly admit that whenever he made an effort, he did not seem to her quite so dour as he first had, and in those occasions, his features reminded her more of Sansa and he did not seem quite so much like the shade of Eddard Stark only with different colouring.

"I have a feeling Obara Sand doesn't know how to jest, princess." The King suggested. This time Myrcella knew enough to keep her tone light.

"Oh she does! It's just that people don't understand it because her japes are never particularly funny."

The King hummed. "Yes, more on the barbed side. Obara's sense of humour matches Obara herself, I suppose."

Myrcella felt her smile widen. "Indeed."

"You are close, are you not?"

Myrcella shot him a questioning glance. "With Obara?"

The king only nodded.

"Yes we are. Most find it strange, but it's true."

"I cannot seem to be able to picture the circumstances that would allow it." he said, so honestly that Myrcella had to smile, even though she did so with sadness – one that was easily overwhelmed by the gladness she felt in this moment for this easy conversation.

"The circumstances were drastic, I admit, but I am glad they made us friends. Obara is the very best of friends to have."

Silence fell again, but this time it did not stretch as long.

"Did you learn to speak dornish while you were in Sunspear? Or was it before that?"

Myrcella sighed internally in relief. Another safe topic! The King seemed to be much more proficient at delicacy than she had first given him credit for. She was not foolish enough to think that these choices of discourse were random, and she was thankful for his consideration.

"I learned when I was in Dorne." Learning the language of the dornishmen had been the only way to understand anything since all behaved as if the common tongue offended them – at least around her. Without meaning to, Myrcella was reminded of Trystane and how he had sat for hours on end with her in the Watergardens, or in the pools of Sunspear, and taught her how to speak the foreign language himself, laughing when she got the words wrong, but never ill-naturedly. That was how their friendship had started. Slow and warm and full of laughter… and as she thought of it now, and of him, the sadness in her breast became a gaping wound. "I suppose it's not too bold to admit that nobody in the Red Keep considered learning dornish a priority."

"No, not bold. Honest though. What was that other language you were speaking last night with lady Nymeria?"

He had heard them? Myrcella had felt him watching but had not turned for a moment, not wanting to meet his eyes. But now it was different, and now she wanted to see his meaning. Myrcella looked up to search his face and found true curiosity in his eyes, giving them a different light, a softer edge. It flickered in his expression, as if he were unsure perhaps, and it was only now that it occurred her that he might be as doubtful about her as she was about him.

"Lady Nym's mother is a noblewoman of Volantis, they speak valyrian there. I learned some when I was a child. My septa seemed to be under the conviction that learning to recite poetry in valyrian was a skill a lady could not live without."

Myrcella thought she covered her real feelings on the matter quite carefully. Her tone had been as blank as it could have without giving away rudeness, but apparently, it was not enough to fool him. He chuckled, and the surprising warmth of it made Myrcella look up at him, at the expression on his face as he stared ahead and then turned to looked at her.

"I take it that you did not agree then?"

"I… it was lovely, of course, but… I have always enjoyed reading about history better. Poetry always seemed to me too much like play-pretend." Whereas history of war and battles and duels were much more real, and felt more exiting. Tommen always loved hearing about them. He wanted to be a knight, like uncle Jamie.

"Sansa always loved reading us poetry. And Arya would rather do battle than read about it. You seem to have unique preferences, princess. At least they seem so to me. But then again, I've never met a princess before."

Myrcella didn't know what to say to that – didn't even fully understand what he meant with it - so she kept her peace.

"So, you like riding, you like history and you like languages." He said then, and there was something very open ended about that observation, as if he expected her to say something.

Was that amusement in his eyes?

"I like learning new things." Myrcella said tentatively. "My uncle Tyrion always said that the greatest freedom was that of the mind, because it's the only thing nobody can take away from you."

The silence that greeted her words made her look at him again, and that was when she caught her mistake. She has spoken too rashly it seemed and had undone that lightness between them that had been so pleasant with the strike of one careless word. Any mention of her family was forbidden, because it brought such a hard look on his face that she should be very sorry to see it again. But apologizing for it would be worse, Myrcella suspected.

"I suppose your uncle is right. Everything else is easily forfeited." The King said slowly and Myrcella understood, once silence came again, that the topic was closed and that he was not going to make mention of her uncle again. She supped he saw it as a great favour that he had overlooked her slip of the tongue. Myrcella tried not to sigh. To live among the northerners, she would have to become a different person, but she could not bleed out the blood than flowed in her veins, nor could she change her appearance to please them, or her heritage. She could not be who she was not. And she would forever be a reminded of death to them...

It was unfair. But then again, life rarely was any different.

"I don't believe I properly apologised for what happened with my sister's wolf." The King said quite suddenly and Myrcella felt him turn to look at her, so she made herself do the same. The fierceness in his eyes made her stager but her body immediately straightened as she faced it, a natural reaction: whenever she felt threatened she immediately hardened against it.

"I am sorry for my sister. She had to travel in the wild for long before she found her way into our family again, and has seen more horror than most grown men do. She will not be easy to accept you here, but she will never do what she did again, that is promise." And now his eyes smouldered "Whatever has happened between our families is no fault of yours, princess, and you are not going to be harmed, neither by me nor by my men."

Myrcella found that she had to remind herself to keep breathing. This was too much honesty, more than she had ever expected and she felt that every word was heavy between them, as heavy as the previous had been light and airy. She swallowed and took a few breaths before opening her mouth to speak. What should she say? Was there even a right way to answer this? Was there even the need for an answer?

"Thank you, your grace. I am grateful for your generosity." and she was, truly. "It is uncommon among men." And therefore unexpected. But Myrcella knew better than to trust words of men in power. Words are wind, they are lies, even Robb Stark's words, though he spoke them as if they were the truths of all time.

"I'm not your brother." He said then, and the statement caused a spear of fright to pass straight through her heart. Apparently he had sensed her hesitation as if he really was a wolf and could snatch the scent of her emotions right out of the air. His keen perception only aided to make her more weary of him: she did not want to be so transparent, not to anyone, and most definitely not to him. She was sure her eyes were huge as she looked at him, and though he did not look as fierce now as he had a moment ago, his expression was still peculiar: both intense and tempered by something akin to sympathy. "I'll never do to you what he did to my sister just because I can. I wouldn't even if you were less deserving of respect than you so obviously are."

Myrcella was silent and so still that she could have been made of rock. What had Sansa told him, she wondered, the question echoing in the silence of her head like a scream, her mind dashing from one memory to another, frantically searching.

His voice was calm, soothing even, when he spoke again.

"Don't look so agitated princess. My sister has told me very little of her time in King's Landing, but I'm not blind nor am I a halfwit." And now they were walking again, or rather, he walked and she had to follow because her arm was still around his elbow. "I recognise the mark of cruelty on another human, and I am able to see it in my sister's eyes... just as I see it in yours."

Myrcella's steps faltered and without meaning to, her hand clenched on his sleeve and she regretted it, because the King no doubt felt that. She didn't know if she should be offended, or angered at his presumption, of thankful for the gentleness of his tone all of a sudden. She was confused and felt out of her depth, throughout all of that, Myrcella knew one thing for certain: she did not want anyone's pity, but less his.

"There is a saying in Dorne." Myrcella spoke carefully when silence stretched. "What does not kill you makes you stronger."

"Aye, I can see that." he said and there was even the trace of humour in his voice. "And I remember the way you stood so tall and stared down a wolf the size of a small horse with blood still dripping from his fangs."

Had he been making fun of her, she would have known… but he was not. There was no trace of humour in his voice now. Perhaps had he known how she had been dying inside as she looked at that beast, he would have laughed at thinking her so very brave. She had though she was staring her death in the face.

"I wanted to show you something, once we were far enough from the encampment. Will you allow me?"

She looked at him and he really seemed to be asking for her permission. If only for that – that he asked – she gave her consent, and felt that he let go of her arm and moved to stand in front of her.

"I think it's appropriate to introduce you two, properly this time." And he looked over her shoulder. She knew without turning what was standing behind her. Myrcella closed her eyes and breathed deep, feeling every muscle in her body tense.

"No, don't be afraid. I didn't call him to frighten you." the King said, quickly this time, as if he was explaining. As if he knew exactly what she was thinking. She jumped when she felt a hand on her arm carefully… surprisingly gentle. More so than she had hoped.

"He is not wild like some believe. He won't harm you, I promise. Look." and he took off a thick glove and extended a hand forward. Myrcella saw his wolf come to him, huge and grey, with eyes the colour of golden stones. The direwolf came close, so close that if she could have, Myrcella would have stepped back. But then the beast bowed his giant head, letting himself be petted like he was just another dog. Myrcella felt a shudder shake her frame and then, a moment later, she felt something else: the unmistakable feeling of the King's arm around her shoulders holding her in place gently.

"Offer him your hand, let him smell you. A token of friendship, if you will." he said when she looked up at him, taking deep breaths through her mouth because her lungs suddenly had to work double time for air. But she did as she was told nonetheless. She took off her glove and extended her hand trying to move slowly, carefully, not wanting to startle the beast.

_'Oh gods...'_ was her last though when she felt the warm and wet snout of the wolf on her palm. The direwolf picked her scent and then started sniffing her pulse, and then under her sleeve where it ticked… and Myrcella was transfixed. It was only when she heard the King's chuckle so close that she remembered... between a moment and the next, the terror had eased. It helped that all her extremities were still attached to her body, but she knew that she owed her unexpected resilience to the fact that the owner of this creature that seemed like a monster from old tales, was still right there with her, his arm still around her shoulders an anchor of reality and sense (perhaps she was simply confused, not knowing which beast was more dangerous, the direwolf or its owner). She doubted she would have been so steady on her feet had she been alone.

"Is it true what they say-" Myrcella asked in a whisper as the direwolf bowed his head and allowed her to touch him between the ears, feeling the coarse fur against her palm, between her fingers and the softer fur underneath. "-that you and your sisters and brothers have a bond with your wolves, that they are to you what dragons were to the Targaryens?"

She had heard more than that; she had heard that the Starks were wargs, skinchangers. But she thought that only rumour of men that adored and feared their commander, wanting to make him more than a brilliant general or even King; they wanted their leader to be something fearsome straight out of a dark tale.

The King smiled in a way that Myrcella could not read well; his smile never seemed to reach his eyes for some reason, and even now she thought it was not sincere, but then again for all she knew – which was little – this was the way he always smiled.

"I don't know about the Targaryens, but Greywind and I are friends. I know that he protects my life and that he is loyal. And I know that he will protect you if I ask him to, so you don't need to fear him."

Myrcella frowned without meaning to, and she was sure that he had caught her expression before she could smooth it away.

"He has that kind of intelligence?" she asked then, giving her expression a real reason for him to contemplate, as he wolf drew back and gave her a lick on her palm, making her jump, before he trotted away from view into the woods.

"Sometimes I think he's smarter than most of my commanders." The King said with a curl on one side of his lips. But then he looked at her seriously. "He has instinct, and its infallible. And he has never harmed anyone that did not have ill intentions towards me."

Myrcella felt the beginning of a joke on the tip of her tongue but she held it back. He caught it however, and his smile was one of curiosity this time.

"What?" he asked, and Myrcella wondered when she had become so transparent. Perhaps it was nerves. Perhaps it was because she wanted him to see her as transparent enough, as long as he was willing to make the same concession.

… as long as he was willing.

"I was wondering, if you and I were at some point to have a disagreement, would your direwolf attack me too?" She asked, smiling only barely, enough to make the joke obvious.

The humour sparked in his eyes, though his smile was faint. "I suppose that depends on whether or not you have an intent to kill me." and the way he says it makes it sound like a joke, though for a moment she tensed. But since he was so relaxed, Myrcella understood this was no trap, but only a conversation, as it had been when this walk first started. Such a revolutionary concept, that… but it should not have been. After all, conversing with him about safe topics had not been as painful as she had first thought it would be.

But she could be sure of nothing with this man. Myrcella had never felt quite so much like a blind woman walking towards a cliff's edge than she did in her dealings with this King. That was however, a contemplation for another time.

"When one of my men once drew steel on me, Greywind took off two of his fingers."

Myrcella blinked and her jaw slackened. "That story is true?" she asked before she could stop herself. She knew of the one they called the Greatjon (apt name, she thought, he was almost as big as the Mountain, though hardly as alarming) and how the direwolf had eaten his fingers. The King's amusement only grew at her wide eyed stare, as he offered his arm to her again.

"Yes." he said simply, though the corner of his lips was twitching upwards.

"Is it true that the Greatjon started laughing afterwards?" because she could not help it, she had always been curious and as of now, the King didn't seems as cold and hard as he always did, so she could dare a few questions.

"Yes he did."

Myrcella couldn't help the short incredulous laugh that escaped her lips, even though she must have looked like a child to him then. Such strange men, she thought… but not without fascination. These were a rough people, the one she was marrying into; no less exotic and foreign than she had once found the dornish and their unique ways. But she had adapted quickly. She had a talent for that: she survived beautifully anywhere.

She would survive the North as well, Myrcella promised herself. She was after all, for all the good and bad, the daughter of Cercei and Jamie Lannister, wasn't she? When Myrcella found no answer in herself to that, she turned to what she had learned once she been forced to find out who the stranger that inhabited her skin was: she turned to the girl she had grown into in Dorne: little bastard lioness, Obara always joked. The name fit her better than all the ones before it though. _That_ was who she was. In _that_ she recognised herself more than in strings of names that had never belonged to her anyway. She was Myrcella Sand, Myrcella Hill, Myrcella, _period_. She had once been 'Myr' for Trystane and 'Sand Lion' for Arianne's amusement as well as many other, worse names. She would be the northerners Bastard Queen soon enough. It didn't change a thing inside her anyway.

ooo

Sansa woke feeling very little rested these days, but as soon as she opened her eyes to see her mother's red hair or her sister's unruly mop, happiness always suffused her in great waves. This morning she opened her eyes to find Arya, sprawled on her back sleeping with her mouth open and her hair in such a wild disarray that it looked like an animal had taken residence atop her sisters head. Sansa Smiled, her heart aching with how happy she felt. She would have reached out and touched her sisters face, but then Arya would wake and she was as untreatable as a bear out of hibernation in the morning. So instead Sansa got up and dressed as silently as possible.

As always Myrcella's bedroll was empty and Sansa was not surprised. Instead she went out looking for her. What she found, was her mother staring ahead with a very strange expression on her face... one that Sansa did not particularly like. It seemed as if her mother was frozen in place, her face a mask of stone. But before Sansa could ask what was wrong, before she even turned to follow her mother's gaze, she heard a sound that, despite all this time, was as surprising to her as the first time she had heard it, so rare was Myrcella's laugh. Or at least, it was rare that it was honest and free of that sharp mocking edge that she had dared use in the Red Keep from time to time.

Sansa turned immediately and saw her brother walk alongside the princess, her arm tucked in his elbow and though they were keeping a very respectable distance from each other and there were Robb's guards behind them, they seemed so… Sansa smiled widely, so much so that she felt her cheeks ache. They seemed almost _at ease_ with each other. She noticed the expression on Myrcella's face then, the laugher that started in her so vivid green eyes but did not burst forth as it had before, but rather a very real smile – of the kind that overwhelmed her face and made the distortion of that scar almost invisible. But there was such lively mischief in Myrcella's eyes that Sansa knew without a doubt that there was a great deal about whatever Robb was saying to her that amused the golden princess. As she watched them, Sansa hoped that Robb had gotten to experience that wicked way Myrcella sometimes liked to tease with, one that instantly exposed her quick wit and that more often than not reminded Sansa of Lord Tyrion's way of jesting: sharp and funny.

Myrcella looked at her brother then, and her eyes didn't lose their spark as they always did, she didn't retreat into a pensive place inside herself. Instead she smiled and spoke to him – and by bow the two of them were close enough that Sansa got to hear what the princess said.

"I am sorry to disappoint, your grace, but the truth is that women like silent men better only because it's easier to pretend they're listening." And her voice was light and warm, dancing with laughter when she spoke, and not a trace of that sticky, honey-sweet charm that she put on like a dress whenever she was acting the princess.

And when Robb laughed, more easily than Sansa had heard him in a long while, that Sansa felt the spark of hope in her breast; a hope that, perhaps there was more than a tiny chance that her brother and Myrcella found something like happiness in their union. And she wanted that for them both, but especially so for her brother. Sansa wished peace and happiness for all her family, but it was Robb leading them now and the weight of all that responsibility had turned him so grave and serious… just like father had been. Seeing him so at ease with the princess gave Sansa a fierce sense of elation: no, her brother had not forgotten how to smile, and this time, it did reach his eyes.

But her joy evaporated a little when she turned around and saw that her mother's gaze was still fixed on her brother and Myrcella and there was no sign of the hope and elation that Sansa was feeling in her mother's face. The hard expression etched into her features had scarcely changed from before, and as soon as she saw that, Sansa felt something quicken in her breast. It reminded her that there are some wounds that never heal, and her mother had never been a woman to easily forgive.

o

TBC:::

1 Eleanor Roosevelt said something like that, a quote that I was inspired by here.

2 Lord of the rings – The two towers (movie); Gandalf's line.


	5. Author Note, and a missing scene

_AN: I edited the previous chapters in the way that i wanted to format them: namely, longer chapters, and come compact development, which is better i think than shorter chapters that seem to go nowhere. Anyway, i was left with this spot that i have to leave empty because if I delete it, i risk losing teh reviwes that this chapter got, and I'd rather not do that. _

_So, Im taking the time here to let everyone know that if you like, I have drawn some schetches of Robb and Myrcella toghether, and that you may find them on my deviantart account, a link of which is in my profile. Some are finished drawings, most are just schetches I have yet to complete, like some portraits of Myrcella, of her wedding gown, of her and Robb in various moments of the story etc. I hope you like_

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_**Small Sidenote**… (a scene i wrote and then cut out because it didnt fit in any of the chapters from before, but i am leaving it here, as a missing scene, if you like)_

_o_

_The hard expression etched into her mother's features had scarcely changed, and as soon as she saw that, Sansa felt something quicken in her breast. It reminded her that there are some wounds that never heal, and her mother had never been a woman to easily forgive. _

Sansa had grown up with the proof of that before her very eyes: Jon Snow… Her bastard brother, once. Half-brother, Sansa used to call him.

Jon had not had anything to do with father's infidelity; the only thing he could have been begrudged was his life and even so, Catelyn Tully, her beloved, fierce mother had ever treated him with a coldness to rival the deepest heart of winter. She had forgiven father, but not Jon - even though Jon was the blameless one. Sansa did not care for judging her mother's imperfections – we are all human and we all must have faults, she thought, and compared to what other faults she had found in other people, her mother's seems so utterly inconsequential sometimes that it was hard to resent her for them. But this time, Sansa had the very strong suspicion that Jon's case was the rule and not the exception when it came to Catelyn Tully's vision of justice, blame and forgiveness. Which made it very likely that, for Myrcella, it would most probably go the way it had gone for Jon, where her mother was concerned. Nevermind that Myrcella had no fault in anything that had befallen the Starks, Sansa still doubted that her mother would ever look at her with anything resembling worth. She could not, for a thousand and one reasons - just as Arya could not. People were quick to point out how very much like a Stark her little sister looked, but in her stubbornness, Arya was very much their mother.

But the princess and her brother were almost in their midst now, and their words drew Sansa out of her thoughts altogether.

"And you think that is a sensible way to judge character?" Her brother inquired, but Sansa had been too wrapped around her own thoughts – she did not know which was the way that her brother was asking after.

"Sensible? Your grace, the only sensible person I have ever met is my tailor."

Sansa felt her brows rise and she saw the same expression mirrored in her brother, though on him it was accompanied by a smile and managed to look both amused and impatient.

"Your tailor? Do speak sense princess." Robb cut short, and Sansa only barely stopped herself from gasping out his name in that reprimanding tone that always made her sound like her mother when she used to scold them for lack of manners.

But the princess's smile only grew more amused.

"Well, she is the only one that takes my measurements anew every time she sees me, while the world goes on with the old ones and expects me to fit them.[1]"

Sansa turned her face away to hide her smile, but her ears didn't miss Robb's low chuckle even though she didn't see it. And by now her brother had brought the princess back to the tent and he bid good morning to both Sansa and mother as he saw them, and Myrcella did the same. To her credit, the princess's eyes did not linger for more than a breath on her mother's face (even though Sansa was sure that Myrcella she had read the expression immediately), instead choosing to keep her eyes on Sansa, and ask her if she had a restful sleep, to which Sansa replied good naturally that '_yes, I did, thank you_' even though Arya had never gotten over her habit of kicking in her sleep. Her mother said nothing at all beyond inclining her head to Robb when he wished her a good morning.

"Thank you for the walk princess." He said then, and after hastily taking off her glove, Myrcella put her hand in his so that he could kiss the back of her fingers lightly.

"Thank you, your grace. Have a good day."

As usual Robb completely sidestepped with a smile the small pleasantries that he had never had time for, and left them. Myrcella watched him for a short moment and then, catching herself, she instantly looked away, busying herself with putting her glove back on. Sansa didn't waste a second. She was immediately at the princess's side, hooking an arm around hers.

"Well!" she said, looking at Myrcella conspiratorially. But Myrcella only smiled, and it was bright and content. A smile of a calm sort of happiness that brought relief. But before Sansa could needle some details out of the princess, a reassurance that her brother had proved the man she could be proud of, her mother spoke, drawing the attention of both girls to herself.

"We will be arriving in Riverrun in perhaps a few more days. I'm sure you're both looking forward to a proper bed and bath."

Sansa met her mother's smile with relief that she did not try to hide. "Yes I very much am. I could soak in hot water for a week, the way I'm feeling right now." Hoping that her enthusiasm could thaw her mother's sudden frosty demeanour.

"And you will get to meet Rose, if you like, princess Myrcella."

Sansa froze at the mention of the name, and not because she did not want to meet her little niece (gods, she still couldn't believe that she was an _aunt_!) but because the mention of the child had not been remotely casual. Her mother was probing the princess and she was not even bothering to be delicate about it.

"Yes. I should like to meet the little princess." Myrcella said with a smile, her tone not wavering for a moment and a note of subtle, but easily distinguishable sincerity in her voice. Of course it would be; and of course she would not hesitate. Sansa had no reason to believe that Myrcella was lying, but even if she had been, the lie would have been flawless. If her mother had been looking for an obvious reaction she would be disappointed; Myrcella was much too used to these kinds of games and a consummate liar besides. In comparison to the intrigue she had to endure in the Red Keep and more probably in Dorne as well, this was nothing, childsplay, mostly because her mother's intention was so transparent and her probe very much expected.

The true question here was about the _motive_ behind this.

"Robb has spoken to you about his daughter?" there was no mistaking the note of surprise in her mother's voice; nor that slight emphasis she put on the '_you' _in that question, as if Myrcella would be the last person on earth Robb would speak to about his daughter… Which, admittedly was a sensible deduction - or it would have been, if her mother had only implied a breach in manners - since to speak to your betrothed about a daughter you had with a previous wife was… well, it was borderline indelicate.

But then again, this was _Robb_ they were speaking of. He was used to addressing men of war, not princesses. Perhaps he had forgotten the difference.

"No, his grace did not. But everyone knows the princess' name." and something like amusement flickered in Myrcella's eyes as she said that, but it was so subtle that Sansa doubted her mother noticed it. Sansa herself caught the flicker only because she was much more familiar with the princess' genuine expressions than her mother probably ever would be.

"Yes, of course. Little Rose was named after her mother, queen Roslyn. It broke Robb's heart when she died in the birthing bed." Catelyn said with no little amount of sadness. Sansa swallowed the lump in her throat with considerable difficulty. She did not doubt that her mother truly was sad that her good-daughter had passed in such unfortunate circumstances, but that did not mean she was not using honest feelings to do dishonest work[2] here. Just what was her mother playing at? Every moment that passed Sansa became more tense at this strange exchange and she was now looking around for something, _anything_, to break this senseless dialogue!

Myrcella however seemed so very undisturbed. Irritatingly so, one might say. She had not tensed for a moment, not even the smallest change in her breathing patter gave a hint that she knew the direction this conversation was taking. Sansa was not stupid enough to think that was the case; she knew better.

_What are you doing mother?_

"Perhaps that is why he dotes on that little girl so very much." Catelyn said as she fixed her gloves. "It would do you both good to meet. After all, you'll be the only mother the princess will ever know."

Myrcella nodded. "I will do my very best to love the little princess well, your grace. I'm sure it will be an easy thing, Dacey tells me she is the sweetest child."

Sansa could not detect even the smallest trace of insincerity in the Myrcella's voice. But her mother only hummed in response.

"I would rather you did not call me 'your grace', princess." Her mother said then, using that definite tone she always used when she wanted something done, one that could set the teeth of grown men on edge when her mother spoke as harshly as she had now. But Sansa found, to a certain degree of surprise, that after being exposed to Cercei Lannister's tempers and bluntness in all things, the effect of her mother's abruptness was much different than it once had been.

If Princess Myrcella's calmness was what she was to be judged by, than it was the same for her.

"I will address you as you most prefer, my lady." Myrcella said ever so serenely.

"Lady Stark will do. It is what all call me." and it was said with the finality of an order.

"As you wish, lady Stark."

If Sansa had not been so tense, she would have smiled at how neatly this folded at its close: Myrcella's tone was of such tranquillity, placid almost, that had anyone been listening and been a stranger to the character of the two women, this stranger would have thought her mother quite stern (or petulant, at worst) and Myrcella the perfect lady. Sansa had to be much more naïve than she was to think this was unintentional. Her mother may have missed this strange bend of the discussion in the beginning, but that did not last for long. She raised one eyebrow at the princess before she wished her good day and came to kiss Sansa's cheek - remembering to tell her that it was high time that she woke Arya.

It was then that Sansa understood the last part of the conversation had been perhaps the only part when her mother had demonstrated the slightest inclination towards Myrcella. That blue assessing gaze of hers had not softened, but there had been a relenting there, in the same moment that she realized that the princess was no fool to play with. Perhaps it had been the tiniest grain of respect for that, perhaps an even further hardening for the same reason. Sansa could not know.

Myrcella didn't comment on her mother's behaviour though, even once she and Sansa were alone, choosing instead to walk the diplomatic route and wait patiently outside as Sansa set upon the painful duty of waking her sister. With regret Sansa decided that she must have a talk with her mother, lest she make the mistake of making an enemy out of a potential allay. And if there was one thing they could all be sorry for in the future, in Sansa's opinion, would be to treat Myrcella as if she was Cercei Lannister, until she finally became so just to spite them. Her brother especially, would suffer for it.

* * *

[1] Inspired by a G. Bernard Shaw quote that goes almost exactly like that.

[2] Couldn't help myself, i just love that expression. GOT reference, of course – Tyrion says it about Cercei.


	6. All the truths that you don't know (pt1)

Ridiculous-length Note_: This chapter is __**obscenely**__ long, so much so that i had to split it in two, since the second part (that i will be posting very shortly, promise) is just as long as this one, almost. I am sorry for that. I know that I take my time and explore, but even that should have some limits, right? I _know_ that, but as we heard it once in a great movie, '…once I start I get too lazy to stop'. However, I would be very grateful to anyone who has the nerve to pick up this chapter and underline the parts that I should cut, since I cannot seem to do that on my own._

_I went slowly on Myrcella's thought process so that the phases of it were clear and wouldn't feel forced or sudden – since she has taught herself not to make any 'sudden' decisions. I also added some bits about the Frey-Bolton betrayal (that do not really move the story forward, I know), because I thought you guys would like to have at least some kind of background on the '_how come Robb Stark is still alive_' part._

_o_

_- _Silly Note_: you'll hear talk about a violet/dark-lavender dress in here… if you've seen 'Elisabeth: the Golden Age' you'll know the kind of vivid colour I had in mind. And as for the cut… I confess that I saw it in some stills of 'Reign' and fell in love with it: McQueen_Fall_2010 (nr.15 of the collection). If you google it that way, you're sure to find pictures of it, though the original one is black… aaand now I'm well past the limits of silly and brushing up cozily against the ridiculous… ;P_

_ Sorry!_

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_**5**. Riverrun: All the truths that you don't know (pt1)_

_"You may grow old and trembling in your anatomies, you may miss your only love, you may see the world about you devastated by evil lunatics, or know your honour trampled in the sewers of baser minds. There is only one thing for it then — to learn. Learn why the world wags and what wags it. That is the only thing which the mind can never exhaust, never alienate, never be tortured by, never fear or distrust, and never dream of regretting."_

_- T.H. White, The Once and Future King - _

She had expected him to be a man of war – he truly couldn't have been anything else – and she had not been disappointed. He was certainly no boy, but Myrcella knew that he was not as old as he sometimes looked either. She did not know his age with true specificity, but she did know that Robb Stark could not be more than two and twenty, probably even less.

(which meant he was older than her by a good five years, though Myrcella tried not to think about that much. It was nothing, worse matches were possible. Gods, worse matches were made every day! Five years was _nothing_! All the while she stubbornly ignored that voice in the back of her head that reminded her: _Trystane had been two years your senior, and it _truly_ had seemed nothing to you then…_ he would be past eight and ten now, had he lived to see it…)

And yet, despite the King's youth, whenever she looked at the him, Myrcella found it hard to match the memory of Robb Stark in the courtyard of Winterfell from years ago with the man she saw now - the King of Winter - despite the fact that, objectively, she knew they were the same person. There were faded traces of that boy she remembered however: even with that beard that hid the shape of his jaw, the King was comely (and she remembered thinking once that Robb Stark had been so handsome); if the startling blue of his gaze weren't so cold and hard, his eyes would be beautiful; if his mouth wasn't always pressed so severely, his lips would be lovely; if she didn't distrust what it meant for her, she would like the width of his shoulders, the leanness of his tall frame. And there were new things as well, things she'd never known: she had learned that he could hold a conversation pleasantly, though he didn't seem to be one of too many words; that he could listen with patience to thoughts that different from his own, despite being very set in his ways; that he took care to place every touch with gentleness, even though it was as much as offering his arm, or kissing her hand. He was careful with himself, Myrcella had learned, and he was also very careful with her and she knew enough of the world to be thankful for it.

But for all the small interactions with him since that walk in the woods, she admitted that she learned of him mostly thought watching him about is business: with his bannermen, with his soldiers, with his mother and sisters.

He walked his camp often, spoke to all of his soldiers - from the horsed ones to the humblest footmen - as if he knew every last one of them and in turn they greeted him with rough-cut smiles and borderline-revering eyes. They loved him, Myrcella realized soon enough. They respected and believed in him. It was a quick realization: one only had to take a look around to step into it (and what a startling one as well: a King loved by his people - such a novelty). It was no surprise really: Robb Stark led his men through war, to victory and independence and now he was leading them home. He walked and spoke and acted a king, but he did it with the easy grace and familiarity of a soldier, a warrior that had shed blood with his brothers.

That was the image he presented and whether it was real or not, it didn't matter. It was what his men saw.

It was by watching him in the fold of his army that Myrcella learned that the King was not such a solemn man after all. He had an easy-going manner with his men which somehow, while making him approachable, managed not to rob him of an ounce of gravity. That easiness of speech and manner was like an armour around him against all false pomp. There was not one drop of that pageantry-feeling in Robb Stark that Myrcella had sometimes seen in commanders walking about their ranks, as if parading themselves and their title. There simply couldn't be: his armour was not gold-plated, silver or ornate: it was of the undescript grey of hard iron, scrapped and well used; he didn't wear his crown among his men – she had never actually seen him wearing a crown at all! It was as if he believed he did not need it, and that belief was returned to him a hundred fold by his men. He was a King not only in name, but in deeds. (Joffrey had always seemed ludicrous, but in comparison to _this,_ he seemed obscene). Myrcella imagined that, had she been one of his men, she would have loved the Winter King too, same as his soldiers did… but the fact was that she was _not_ a man in Robb Stark's army - and perhaps that was the problem: he would have been so much easier to like, if she could keep him in the safe distance of a liege lord, or even a friend… and as she thought that she felt like laughing. It was a little hard to do, she thought absently, fancying herself a man when she was stretching on her tub wrapped only in hot water and nothing else. The thought gave her giggles for a moment.

They had arrived in Riverrun hours ago, just a little past midday, and Myrcella had spent most of her time in that tub, scrubbing at her skin and her hair, enjoying the unwinding of her saddle-sore muscles. And what a pleasure that had been - the warm room, the soft bed and hot bath - a delicious frivolity that she could not resent herself for indulging in, not when she finally felt clean for the first time in weeks, her skin once again smooth and she could pass a hand among her curs and not have her fingers get trapped in impossible tangles after a few inches. The simple relaxation of it allowed Myrcella to almost forget that she'd have to dine in a hall filled with northern bannermen and riverlords that night. Myrcella had to admit however that the situation was nothing quite as new as she pretended it was. Certainly not the first time she'd have to share an evening with people that wished she would choke on her stew. So she luxuriated in the warm bath a little more, indulging in the faint scent of jasmine-oil in her water and dry wood burning in the hearth… and - though strangely incongruous - indulging in the thought of Robb Stark as well.

She could say now that she knew what a _true_ smile looked like upon his face, what he looked like when he was happy - and to her relief, seen with her own eyes that he was actually _capable_ of happiness. She had seen it not even three hours ago, upon entering the gates of Riverrun and could not stop thinking about the moment.

Myrcella had been riding ahead with the royal party and was among the first to enter the gates and into the keep – and from up on her horse it was easy to see the scene unfold: how swiftly the King jumped down from his horse and hurried his step to greet the tall man that looked vaguely like him - thought with brighter red hair and eyes less grave - and then immediately he'd turned to the middle-aged woman that was standing close to that man. For a moment Myrcella had a flash of doubt but the thought didn't even have time to form when she noticed that it was not the woman that he wished to greet, but rather the infant that she was holding: a little girl with tuffs of deep russet curs and wide clear-blue eyes that reminded Myrcella of Sansa's. The child could not be more than two years of age: a pretty little thing with chubby cheeks and pale skin that seemed the softest thing in the world and a squealing laughter that made one want to smile, the way children often do. The child gave a very loud squeal when the King picked her up and held her close. He greeted her with kisses and the babe squirmed a little in his arms, perhaps bothered by the scratch of his beard. The King – Robb Stark, he looked a lot more like Robb Stark then – had smiled at his daughter and the look on his face had been… Myrcella had been shocked by what she saw there, truthfully.

He had been full of love as he looked at that little girl, eyes so soft and smile so warm that he didn't look like the same person at all.

She had stayed in the great hall of Riverrun only long enough for the formalities to be done with (and long enough for Edmure Tully – their host and the King's uncle – to give her a look full of righteous distaste, undoubtedly feeling as if he was the first one to grace her with it). Afterwards all the new guests had been ushered to their rooms – something for which the princess had been so glad of that she could have kissed the maid that showed her to her room – and the hole time Myrcella had been thinking about that moment in the courtyard: Robb Stark with his daughter in his arms, and the tangible proof that there was truly a man beneath the King and the ever-winter of his eyes.

A man who could look at his daughter with so much affection, with such _love_… well, such a man could not be so bad, could he? And he was most certainly capable of more emotions than she gave him credit for. If up until then Myrcella had been almost convinced that the King was not as bad as she had feared him to be, his behaviour with his daughter seemed only to confirm it for her. The relief she'd felt had been palpable.

Directly after that, Myrcella had sternly warned herself not to put too much stock in anything. _Trust no one but yourself_, the voice of reason whispered to her. There was no guarantee that he would ever be capable of showing her the same image of himself, of ever trusting her that much. No guarantee at all that he would love the children his Lannister wife gave him in the same way he loved the daughter he'd had from his first wife (and Myrcella knew all too well that there were many ways one could be a horrible father and that an indifferent one was its own kind of agony… just as she knew she'd be pushed to do something horrible if he proved to be a cruel one). If one desired to be thoroughly mistrusting, one could even say that, the fact that he loved his child was not even _real_ proof that he was capable of even a shred of the same emotion for anyone else: he could love his daughter fiercely and still be a monstrosity to everyone else… though Myrcella knew that by then she was grasping at straws. Robb Stark was not her mother; her mother was a unique specimen of human nature, too specifically broken and warped by the life she had led and the hurts she'd suffered, to serve as an example for anyone.

Myrcella knew that she was being stubborn with her refusal to admit it when something so obviously good was before her eyes, but she could not help herself. She was not the kind of woman to build people up inside her head anymore – that was among the most lethal mistakes one could make, she'd learned that painfully. She'd rather discover people piece by piece and as for the King, the only allowance she'd dare make was that he was not what she'd feared him to be – which was admittedly a great relief. OF course, Myrcella knew her own heart and mind, knew her weakness and what they craved: she would never be happy with so little, but she had long since stopped dreaming about happiness. Peace was all she hoped to find now, a sort of contentment. When one could not alter their own circumstances, the next best thing to do was make the most of them, and Myrcella wold do just that, and not waste a moment wishing for the stars. If you had the misfortune to be born a woman, a Lannister and a princess – all at the same time - you learned at a very early age that dreams were for fools and you were not permitted to be one.

Women… every time Myrcella found herself contemplating the thoughts of her sex in general, her mother came to mind. Cercei Lannister had often had much to say about women and their weaknesses.

_A woman's weapons…_

Myrcella lifted one leg over the edge of the tub and looked at the shape of her ankle, her calf and higher, her thigh. She touched the tips of her fingers down her sides, to her hips and thighs, wondering how a man might look at her… what the King would think of this body when she was in his bed. Myrcella knew herself for what she was: as tall as her mother, but without the sensational curves that made Cercei Lannister appear so stunning even when the prime of her age had passed. Her own body was more compact, made of wiry muscles and subtle curves, rather than shapely ins-and-outs. Perhaps because she was young still, or perhaps because of all the riding and the running and Obara's training… It was no matter anyway. Nymeria was just as slender, and she was beautiful in the eyes of all who saw her. _Every woman's body is beautiful,_ Ellaria always said, and when it came to that, Ellaria was somewhat of an authority after all, so Myrcella believed her.

But it was one thing to have a body that one might find pleasing, and another thing entirely to know how to use it.

Myrcella had heard enough about the intimate preferences of men ('_call it what it is Myrcella'_, a voice said inside her head, one that '_It's called fucking!'_) from the uncensored mouths of those such as Obara and Nymeria, even Arianne. They had taken her aside when she flowered and spoken to her of a woman's body and its ways… and then later, of _other_ things. Obara liked to speak of domination and mastering men to her own desire. Nymeria on the other hand treated seduction with the same finesse and mystery that she treated all else. Arianne… well, where the snakes explained fucking to her as a means to its own end - the end being your own pleasure and that of your lover - Arianne spoke of it as a game. Of how you could make men or break them; how to drive them mad with want and how to keep them wanting; how you could bend them to your will and use their desire against them.

(Myrcella would understand, once returned to her mother, that Cercei Lannister saw her body in this light as well… though her way was quite different from Arianne's. Arianne enjoyed it from start to finish; her mother made it sound like whoring oneself)

Myrcella had listened to them red-faced but fascinated, though she had not been able back then to imagine what it was like to have a lover - and now she knew that she probably would never have a proper one. Husbands are not lovers - they are husbands. In Dorne they had the neat solution of paramours for that, but westeros was different… and Myrcella would be _queen_ (and she would rather die a thousand painful deaths than bring a single bastard into this world). And besides, despite all the stories and funny details, despite the fact that Myrcella might even know what it was to want - as in, to want a man as a woman does - the thought of laying with one brought nothing but apprehension for her. And when she thought of Robb Stark… she simply could not shake off the anxiety it brought her, how much the thought of being helpless that way with him disturbed her - which was a problem of its own because, according to Arianne, a man's true weakness was a woman's desire.

_Could I maybe fake that?_ Myrcella wonders absently, and in the space of the same thought she decided that she should ask Obara about it. Or rather, Nymeria, if she were willing – Obara was not likely to understand the need to _pretend_ you wanted someone. Tyene was bound to be full of heady secrets too, but Myrcella would never ask _her_ for any of them; Tyene's secrets were poisonous as Tyene herself. Ellaria might have something valuable to teach her, and though Myrcella dreaded the older woman's extreme and indiscriminate sexuality a little, she would likely do well to listen. After all, Ellaria had kept one such as prince Oberyn for her own for more than sixteen years - that was no easy feat. And that was something Myrcella would like to learn how to do, because though she did not know herself as a married woman, seeing that she had never been one before, she did know that she would not like to share her husband with anyone.

And as Myrcella contemplated that, she deliberately did not think of her mother. Gone were the times when she'd ask herself what Cercei Lannister would do in her place. The only time she did, was so that she could do the exact opposite - which was why, as she contemplated the lines of her own body, Myrcella did not delude herself into thinking that by using it she could ever gain any ounce of control over the King. She had seen how feeble that kind of power was, how fast it waned. Both Cercei and Arianne were wrong there: assuming that all men could be ruled by their cocks was as irrational as assuming that all women were airheaded fools without two coins of sense to rub together. Men could be driven to utter madness for a woman and that was true enough – as women could be for men - but desire itself was too volatile to be a solid means of control; using it as such was like building sand castles and expecting them to hold against the oncoming waves – it seemed to Myrcella an amateurish mistake to make, especially when the ones making it were women seasoned enough in the games of shadows to know better that to put on men more trust than their nature should allow.

Women like her mother, Myrcella unwillingly admitted. That men were slaves of their loins was a notion that Cercei Lannister believed in firmly… and perhaps resented just as strongly. She had always wanted to have been born a man, as if being a woman categorically precluded her from any direct form of power or violence. But a woman's helplessness in front of a man's fist was not weakness, it was fact; as was a man's soft flesh under any blade, as certain as death was in a poisoned cup. Blood-spilling and blood-drinking were not things only men could do well, and neither was leading kingdoms. There were many kinds of power and Myrcella had seen women successfully yielding them all – and each of them had proved more efficient at it than her mother was (but thinking that was unkind and perhaps… perhaps a better testament to her time among the dornish than anything else she had learned from them).

Power was a game of shadows and dust, Myrcella thought, and that was a truth that her mother had never quite grasped fully. Or rather, one that she regularly misunderstood. It was a mistaken vision that her mother had passed down to her precious firstborn. Joffrey was a ruin because of his own nature, yes, but also because Cercei Lannister was very nearly a complete failure as a mother.

_My mother… her shortcomings so glaringly obvious; her virtues so painfully meaningless._

But enough of that! Cercei Lannister was not what she wanted to think on now. How did she even deviate her thoughts that way? Had she not been thinking of the terrifying prospect of dinner? And later, of men? How had the thought of bedding Robb Stark brought her around to contemplations about her _mother_? (though Myrcella knew the answer to both those questions, so intimately linked they were.) Safer to think of the feast alone and of the man men and women whose hatred and scorn she'd have to face.

Myrcella sighed deeply, tracing patters in the water with the tips of her fingers that were slowly starting to prune. How very ironic was it that a room full of people that wanted her dead sounded almost warm-hearted compared to what thinking of her family made her feel? She smiled to herself, and a little whisper in her head spoke to her with her uncle Tyrion's voice: _murder preferable to family… there might be a Lannister in you yet!_ Myrcella smiled a little more widely, though her heart tightened a little with longing. She missed her uncle's wit. She missed little Tommen's smile… she'd missed Jamie's barbed humour for so long that now it was a faded memory, but her feelings for Jamie Lannister were a bit more complicated than that, unfortunately.

But she was lucky, because just in that moment, a knock sounded at the door, saving her from the thoughts; and just by the way the fist connected with the wood of her door, Myrcella knew who it was behind it.

"Come in Obara." Myrcella said, turning around in the tub so that she could face the door with a smile. Such a timely interruption. Obara opened the door and held it open for Elia who closed it behind her, taking Myrcella in with a smile – one that turned into a smirk when she looked back at her sister.

"I _told_ you she'd still be in her bath." Elia said, speaking around her smile. Obara only rolled her eyes and landed herself on Myrcella's bed, flopping down like a dead fish with a groan as Elia sat herself on Myrcella's vanity chair, pulling both legs up over one arm and leaning against the other.

"I'm waiting on your lecture for overindulging." Myrcella said though it was but a tease. Obara only gave her a rude gesture with her hand.

"Tired?"

"No." Obara groaned. "Starving."

Elia shared a look with Myrcella but said nothing.

"I can't say I'm looking forward to dining with all those men, to tell you the truth." Elia said distractedly. "Most of them smell like a two-day-old carcass in the sun."

Myrcella curled her nose at her friend. "Lovely thought."

Elia only raised one eyebrow at her. "Not very enthused about the oncoming feast, are you?"

Myrcella sighed but said nothing. Elia got up from the chair and came to sit on a low stool behind Myrcella's head, brush in hand ready to pass it through Myrcella's curls that had been hanging out of the bath and starting to dry. She'd already brushed it, but she didn't say anything because Myrcella loved having her hair brushed and Elia loved brushing it. _You have gold growing out of your skull_, she used to say, _and I have ebony_. They had waved their hair together once, laughing at the contrast.

"I wouldn't worry. You'll be sitting close to Sansa and she likes you. And once the official part is over, you can come sit with us. I'll come up there and steal you away." Elia said putting her head close to Myrcella's practically whispering the words in her ear like a secret conspiracy. It made Myrcella smile.

"I'm not sure what to wear." She finally said then.

"No red." Obara quickly pointed out and Myrcella narrowed her eyes at her.

"Thank you for the obvious council, oh wise one. No I mean, do I dress richly? After all I am to be a queen and I am supposedly a princess. I wouldn't do to look beneath my station – it could be seen as an insult to the King. But then, would they take offence in my dressing up as too rich? As if I'm flaunting my family's name and fortune - and all the rest - right in their face."

Not that anyone in that hall tonight would need reminding. Even those who'd never met her, knew her. Even those that never met her mother.

Still, Myrcella knew that the Riverlands had suffered dearly in the war: they were the knot of the realm and practically indefensible besides. And her grandfather, the undimmed Tywin Lannister had unleashed the Mountain on them… Myrcella felt her skin crawl every time she thought of the man. No, she didn't want to cause discontent… but she'd chew on her own hand before she was made to look feeble in front of anyone.

Obara had turned on her stomach, face buried in the covers so the groan she let out was muffled. Of course she didn't give a rat's ass about what Myrcella was to wear. She'd probably wear breeches herself.

"Wear something of rich cloth, but simple cut." Elia suggested wisely, as the motions of the brush became soothing. "It seems like a good compromise."

Myrcella nodded. Yes it was.

Elia set the brush aside and it was then that Myrcella chose to finally end her long bath and start getting herself ready. She rose from the water and stepped out of the tub, catching the robe that Elia threw at her from the other side and wrapping it around herself. It was warm in the room, the fire was roaring, but from out of the water Myrcella felt suddenly cool.

"Hells Myrcella, what is it, don't they feed you in the Red Keep?" Obara asked, as Myrcella feared she would, sounding surprised and even angry.

The princess knew why of course: she had lost much weight these last few months and though she had been slowly getting back to her usual form, she was not as she'd been just yet. She had not hoped for Obara not to notice – Obara noticed almost everything – but she had hoped however that the older woman would have Elia's tact and keep the observation to herself. She should have known better of course – she _did_ know better. But hope lies a slow death, it seemed.

"They fed me well enough, but my appetite was whimsical since I had to share a table with my brother most of the time." Myrcella said blandly as she dried her hair, looking at a spot on the carpet in front of the hearth.

She did not mention that the journey to the Red Keep from Sunspear had been less than pleasant, and that during that journey she'd been fed with bread and water and the occasional stale fruit. Those were memories she did not particularly wish to revisit and she was glad when Obara didn't enquire further into it. Elia's warning look had been enough this time it seemed, to make her think again about asking. Myrcella was grateful for it.

"You should have thought of that yourself – the dress thing." Obara observed from where she was laying, now on her side, her head propped on her hand as she stared at Myrcella's face intently. "Why didn't you?" and then, without even giving Myrcella time to answer: "What's been worrying that pretty head of yours?"

Myrcella shrugged, but walked over at the bed where Elia too was now lying and saw on one corner, leaning against the bedpost as she dried her hair with a linen cloth. Should she…

_Oh, why the hell not!_

"I have been thinking about the King."

Elia smiled brightly as she flopped back against the pillows. "Oh, finally! I thought you'd never get over your 'sensible' approach with him."

That Obara stayed silent was something Myrcella did not miss.

"I am well within my rights to be careful."

Elia rolled her eyes. "Yes, I know, but… well, you keep everyone at such a distance, Myr. It's a struggle to get close to you." She paused briefly, enough to let Myrcella know that she was hesitated a moment at least, before bringing it up. "I don't think you've made a single new friend ever since Trystane died."

Myrcella said nothing to that. Elia had a way of divesting your innermost secrets right in your face, and quite carelessly too sometimes, but she'd never done it in any way that had felt hurtful. It did feel a little so now though, and Myrcella felt like biting back something like '_and you wonder why?_'… But that would have been unkind and much too low a point to make. So Myrcella kept peace. What Elia said was the truth after all and she'd be a liar if she said different.

_Fool me once…_

"You were saying you've been thinking about the king." Obara pushed, saving Myrcella from having to grace Elia with any kind of answer.

"Yes." Myrcella said, taking her line of thought back up… and hesitating. "His men like him."

Obara rolled her eyes almost at the same time with her younger sister. "His men think the sun shines out of his ass. Or, what is the saying up here, the he 'pisses snow' or something of the like."

Myrcella bit her lip, but couldn't hide the smile. "I'm sure the phraseology is the same, Obara." Myrcella said and took a deep breath. "His men would follow him through all seven hells themselves, but what about his bannermen?" she asked then, and on this she had to ask Obara who was among the fighting men and her father's right hand. She was bound to know some details that were precluded to most. At least she was bound to know more than Myrcella did, since she'd never been present when the king spoke with his captains of his bannermen. Of course not…

"What about them?" Obara asks, needing a specific question to focus on.

"What do they think of him?"

Obara frowned. "He is their King." She said simply which earned a sigh from Myrcella.

"Yes he is, and as much as the soldiers of his army love him, the lords are something different. Lords of anything don't ever give their loyalty just because they must – they _always_ want something back."

Obara gave her a contemplative look.

"It was his bannermen that declared him King you know, not the other way around. That says something." Obara quirked an eyebrow. "If you were one of his bannermen, wouldn't _you_ love him?"

Myrcella though on that. No, she had not known that Robb Stark had been chosen to be a King. It was an obvious choice after all, Starks had always been the Kings of Winter, but still… it spoke of his worth, sure – and it also reinforced Myrcella's belief that he was even more dependent on his bannermen than other kings. After all, without them he would have no crown.

But then again, that had been years ago…

"I'm _not_ one of his bannermen so I don't rightly know. And while there are lords who love their kings for being brave and strong and true, as there are those who resent them for the same reason."

Obara frowned deeply. "And why do would that be?"

Obara asked these kinds of questions often: she asked them not because she wanted to hear what she didn't know. What Obara wanted to hear was the things Myrcella – or anyone – _thought_ she knew.

"If I had soldiers under my command, I wouldn't want their love and loyalty to go to another man. The only control an overlord has over his king are the military forces he supplies. If the lord wants to ignore the king's call, but his men don't share that opinion… well, I wouldn't like that king much."

"You wouldn't be much of a lord though, if you ignored your liege." Obara pointed out and Myrcella finally lost patience.

"You know perfectly well what I mean. I just want to know if there's anyone in particular among is men that wishes me harm. Or rather, _more_ harm than the others." And how the king would feel about that – that would be nice to know as well, but that was something neither Obara nor Elia could tell her.

Elia gave her a sympathetic smile. "They don't much like you, it's true." But she was teasing, Myrcella could see that.

"Of course they don't. Half of Westeros doesn't much like me, the other half hates me. It doesn't exactly break my heart. But I want to know if there's anyone that hates me with a passion a little more fierce than the others. Someone I should watch out for."

And at that, both Snakes fell silent – a silence that hinted of answers.

"There's Lord Karstark – he's one you must watch out for, truly." Obara said. "About the same age as the King, big man, bushy beard… but I just described ninety percent of this army. You'll know him by the way he scowls at you, never mind."

Elia filled in the reason why, when Obara neglected to do so. "The Kingslayer killed his older brother and his father on the battlefield and strangled his little brother with his chains when he tried to escape."

Myrcella felt her mouth go dry.

This was… this was expected, admittedly. And at the same time it was not. She knew men died in war. A war had been waged by her family, thousands had died by Lannister swords – same as they'd died by Stark swords. War was carnage… and those were just words. Myrcella knew blood and fear and hatred, but she did not know battle. She had no faces to link to it, no screams to remember or blooded fields to recall. All she had was words and tales. But this was different: it was closer. Killing on a battlefield she did not know, but the other one – with that she was intimately familiar with. As Jamie had killed to free himself, so had Myrcella, not even so long ago. She could understand it, but… But she had not had to sit down and break bread with the family of those she'd killed after! That changed the situation most thoroughly… and it made her wonder of things that she perhaps should not wonder; practical things that hurt to think about. Things like: how many men had Jamie killed himself? How many had reason to hate her for the blood that her blood had spilled? Not some general idea, some man in red armour, but _her_ blood, her _father, _as much as she hated the word… the man whose flesh she had been made of, whose blood flowed in her veins.

"Anyone else?" Myrcella finally asked so flatly she might have called ever herself callous. Elia gave her a tiny smile, as if she knew exactly what Myrcella was thinking. Obara on the other had regarded her with cool eyes.

"Not with any tie to you that is quite so particular, but as for the King… well, I have heard rumours going around." Elia said then, looking from her sister to Myrcella in turns. Of course she had. She was like a shadow when she wanted to be, and words in the wind called to Elia the way the scent of blood called to wild beasts.

"Remember when we heard that the King in the North was dead?" Elia asked, looking at Myrcella in the eye with her shining amber ones. Myrcella did remember. She had been in the Watergardens when she'd heard, and Robb Stark's laughter had not been the faded memory that is now. She'd felt sorry for him then, for the boy she used to know that wouldn't smile any longer.

"Well, apparently though not dead, he got pretty close to it. He was betrayed by one of his own and the Freys."

Myrcella frowned. The Freys had been the family of his wife, his queen. What the bloody hell could have made them betray her, their own blood, if not their king?

"Apparently, the King had had Walder Frey arrested once the old man opened his gates at him and his army, and supplanted him with his heir."

"On what charges?" Myrcella asked immediately, leaning forward a little.

Elia shrugged. "Oathbreaking. Walder Frey was one of the Tully bannermen, but when Riverrun was under siege and soldiers were needed, old Walder had not kept his oaths to his overlord. Not even a single one of his men went to Riverrun. So, once the terms had been negotiated and the King was granted entrance into the Twins, Robb Stark called Walder Frey to answer for his actions and when he could not answer in any way that satisfied his grace or his bannermen, he was put in chains for them – and dragged all the way to Riverrun so that Lord Tully could pass judgment on him while his heir was put in his stead to replace him."

"And the son of that same man who had not kept his oaths, betrayed him." Myrcella reasoned bitterly. If the King had wanted Walder Frey punished for his crime or made an example off, his Frey head should have been taken from his shoulders in front of his whole army, the Twins cleaned of his supporters and a _trusted_ man, with his own trusted soldiers, put there to supplant him and keep the peace while the King fought his war. Throwing men in black holes meant nothing if you couldn't go through with it… but maybe Robb Stark had not wanted to kill the father of his bride quite so soon.

It was a nice theory – and one that Elia deconstructed with a few chosen words.

"Oh no. Apparently, the new head of house Frey had been vocal in his calls to answer the threat against his liege Lord. He was quick to swear fealty to the King and apologise to Lady Catelyn for his father's misgivings. Once the Riverrun siege was broken, Lord Tully and the other riverlords had Lord Frey condemned for treason and his head was taken by the King himself, because by then the riverlords had declared him king of the Trident too." And here Elia smiled that tiny feral smile that made her look as predatory as her father. "Gotta love the Stark's nerve there. He had not even married the Frey girl at the time – which he promised he would do anyway, by the way, despite Lord Frey's general worthlessness or his untimely and bloody demise."

Myrcella scoffed. One could have argued that Walder Frey _owed_ the northern army passage and had no right to exact toll on the King for anything, oathbreaker as he was. One could say that, and deduct that it had been so very noble of Robb Stark to have kept faith with his given word, despite the nature and crimes of the man he'd given it to. And if one could not look deeper into it than that, one would have to be a fool: _Of course_ the King would keep his word - he'd have no choice. House Frey needed securing and Robb Stark needed their men and their bridge… and that girl's hand if he wanted to _keep_ them both. Elia spoke of Walder Frey's untimely demise, but the whole of Westeros had been waiting for that old man to die for a long time. As for 'bloody' however… there, Elia might be right. And still, Myrcella could not think of one single person that would have wept over Walder Frey's grave, if even less than half of what people said about the man was true.

"So what happened?" who had betrayed whom; where, when… most importantly, why?

Elia shrugged and looked at her nails, disinterested apparently with the whole thing. "I'm not sure, there are so many tales going around. But the thing they all have in common is that a branch of the Frey house resented their leader's bloody dispatch and they allied themselves with the Lannisters because apparently – and here is the part that might interest you – one of Lord Frey's sons was married to Tywin Lannister's sister."

Elia looked at Myrcella expectantly, as if she was waiting confirmation. Myrcella searched her memory for the name, the face. She found the first, but the second was not there.

"Genna Lannister. She is married to a Frey, I think. I don't remember ever meeting her." Even barely heard of her, and never outside her lessons when she'd had to study her family tree and know the names of all the Baratheons and Lannisters, their ranks and marriages and alliances, all by heart. But that was such a long time ago…

"Well, she must be the one. Either way, on the King's wedding night in Riverrun there was an assault on the camp and many were killed. Ironborn, they said, and Frey men. Fuck knows what they were trying to do – some say that they had been paid their weight in gold to free Jamie Lannister, who was being kept in the dungeons of Riverrun at the time - but what they _did_ accomplish was a hell of a lot of confusion apparently. Enough of it to get the King himself into the mix. He got himself stabbed… and there are those who swear that the dagger went right through his heart and he still refused to die."

Obara snorted. "Northerners like to make a big fuss out of everything. You'd think they were a more stoic lot with how solemn they usually look."

Myrcella was inclined to agree, but the King's stabbing wasn't the issue, since the he had survived it. The real question was how had whoever stabbed him gotten so close to him? The cloak of darkness was not nearly enough to spirit armed men inside a well guarded fortress. Betrayed by one of his own, Elia had said, which made sense: they would have needed someone on the inside to help them for that. Knowing her grandfather, it would be the one with the most to gain should the King of Winter fall. But Myrcella didn't know enough of the north and its conflicts to guess at who that was.

"So who was it that betrayed him?" she asked, as much to herself as she was asking Elia. Because someone _had_ to have betrayed him, as improbable as it sounded now. It was easy to look at the northerner's rebellion as it was today and see it destined to come to a victorious end, but it had not started that way. It hadn't looked that way even well into the war. In the beginning Robb Stark's position had been much more precarious, at least politically speaking. He had been a very successful rebel, but a rebel none the less, whose campaign depended on alliances and the friends he could keep… and on his bannermen as much as on anything else.

Myrcella found herself looking at him with his men often, and just as often she wondered: how much had he had to compromise, to march them south? How much more, to keep them in a war for years? Was it as true as they said, that northern lords were bound by more than their own interests, that they really did believe in honour? Myrcella doubted it. She'd never seen such a thing as honour preserve a man's life in the face of a swinging sword. It was easier to believe that it was their collective hatred of the south and the crown – and the promise of gain - to give them momentum in the beginning. And it was just as easy to believe that one of them had seen the war for a failure, and their King for a boy, and decided to switch sides as long as it was still feasible.

Elia looked at her with dark eyes that seemed to know more than they would ever tell anyone. Myrcella didn't even blink under her friend's stare. She knew better.

"Northerners are a superstitious lot it seems: most don't like to speak to foreigners of what amounts to them as the most dishonourable and shameful of betrayals. You've got to get them seriously drunk before they even consider it, but once you do, a certain lord Bolton of the Dreadfort features heavily on their angry rants. And how the King's wolf ripped his throat out. And how the Bolton's bastard set siege to Winterfell and almost burned it to the ground before he was rooted out. And how some say he's dead and others say he's not."

"I thought it was the ironborn who tried to burn Winterfell!" Myrcella said immediately – and so did the rest of the realm for that matter.

"So did the King for a while. The truth seemed to be of a different colour."

Bolton, Myrcella though, and tried to recall the name from her lessons, the history. It had been quite a while ago that she had learned the names and symbols of all the houses of Westeros, and unfortunately for her now, the North had never been deemed so important to make a careful study. But she knew that the Boltons were an important house of the North. She remembered vaguely that they were second only to the Starks of Winterfell… the flayed man was their symbol – and she remembered that because it had always frightened her. What were their words? Myrcella could not recall them.

"How did the other lords react when one of them was killed by the king's wolf?" Myrcella could not imagine that that had not been met with some frowns, whatever the circumstance. When a prominent lord committed treason, the necessity for a fair and very public trial was direr than ever, if only so that the bannermen could not say that the king was killing his men at his pleasure. Kings who did that tended not to last very long.

"Bolton did not die at Riverrun the night the King was stabbed. He died later, at Harrenhall, or something like that. And I have yet to meet the man that regrets his passing: it seems that Lord Bolton had been acting without orders while he was stationed in Harrenhall, sending men of other noble houses to die in useless battles while he kept his own as reserves. He might as well have stuck a dagger behind all their backs – which seems to be something no northerner can forgive."

Myrcella sat back, leaning against the bedpost and looking at Elia in stunned silence. She'd never heard of any of this… not that anyone had ever deigned to fill her in with the particulars of the war of course, but _still_. That was a pretty big secret to keep! Treachery of this calibre must have shaken the northerners hard… and perhaps even hardened their resolve. No wonder nobody seemed to mind that a wolf had torn Bolton's throat out.

"Lord Bolton sounds like a stupid man. Did he think he'd never get caught slaughtering his own troupes?" Elia asked herself as much asked it to the other two girls with her.

Obara was the one who answered. "I doubt very much that he was stupid. I think he knew exactly what would happen in Riverrun and expected the King to die. I think that the King chose to let that word spread, so that he might root out the spy in his ranks – and he did." Obara's eyes settled on Myrcella's and even before the older woman spoke, the princess knew what she was going to say. "And I also think that Bolton had help from King's Landing."

Myrcella smirked, an honest expression of sharp cunning that she allowed herself only when in the presence of those she most trusted. "From my grandfather, you mean." Obara raised her brows in ways of an answer and it made Myrcella smile wider. "Tywin Lannister probably orchestrated the whole thing. It sounds like something he would do."

"Sneaking behind an enemy's back you mean?"

Myrcella only cocked one eyebrow at Obara's goading. Had it been anyone else, she would have thought they were trying to provoke her, but Obara knew her better than to think any kind of truth about Tywin Lannister could ever inspire passion in her. But there was one aspect over which Obara was wrong – one that Myrcella had learned fairly recently about her grandfather - or rather, discovered. She had always thought that he was a cruel man, but that was not strictly-speaking the truth. The outright misery he inflicted upon others - of his blood or not - by his actions (sons and daughters that he dehumanised completely and only saw as tools, by the by) certainly classified him as a cruel man, but he was not _ruled_ by cruelty, it was never his motivator. It was not a part of him at all, much as it may surprise some people. Tywin Lannister was, to the deepest core of him, a coldly efficient man. Myrcella was convinced that he probably had no humanity to speak of to hold him down, to weight his hand and his conscience. No honour, no fear, no hesitation… and it was a horrible thing to say but that gave him a great strategic advantage over his enemies: where others were bound by conventions, Tywin Lannister probably saw himself above them. There was nothing he would not do to get what he wanted, as he had proved time and time again. Cruelty was just a result of that kind of thinking, not the reason behind it.

"What I mean is that it sounds like something he would do: Extreme, efficient and to the point. He probably knew that the northern ranks were breaking and decided to use it to his advantage. Too bad it came back to bite him in the ass."

Obara's eyes turned surprised on her. She had not expected that kind of answer, not formulated in that manner. Myrcella herself knew that months ago, when she was still in Dorne she would have sung a slightly different tune.

"So you know more of Tywin Lannister now?" and this time it really was a question, an honest one.

Myrcella shrugged. "Barely so; enough to survive him, I hope… and on occasion get on his nerves when I got bored. It was fun to see how far I could push before he left me for Joffrey to deal with."

Elia had sensed the danger vibrating in the conversation but where she held her vigil in stillness and contemplation, Obara leaned forward, closer to Myrcella's face, fascinated by it.

"And how far was that?"

"Not much I admit. He is a rather dull man, my grandfather."

He had enjoyed her wit over dinner occasionally (something that had always caused a strange reaction on her queenly mother, reactions that usually led her to most surprising silences), or at least as much as Tywin Lannister seemed to enjoy anything, but the moment she actually got funny (namely, insolent) and joined her uncle, her grandfather got impatient. A shame really, since insolence was where uncle Tyrion excelled and Myrcella considered herself his favourite student.

"Can we please move away from the topic of Tywin Lannister. I don't like talking about him." Elia said tensely. It made Obara roll her eyes but Myrcella could only smile, though a little sadly.

"Nobody really does Elia."

"Unless they're plotting to kill him." Obara was quick to add.

"Well, there's always that." Myrcella countered, utterly unaffected. But then she decided to heed Elia's advice. "What were we speaking of before that anyway?"

"The north and the south and how they're not so different after all." Elia immediately supplied. At Obara's questioning frown however she explained. "That the Northerners betray their own and turn cloak same as anyone – Lord Bolton did!"

Myrcella held her tongue, but Obara outright groaned as she flopped back on the bed. "Hells, sister! Did you really believe all that about the northmen?"

"Not exactly, but…"

"No, there's no '_but'_ anywhere." Obara was firm to correct. "Listen well sister: There are greedy and grasping men everywhere, as there are cruel and cold men everywhere. Once in a while you might even find good men, in unlikely places. But _all_ men lie." Obara stated with a certainty that brokered no disagreement and unfortunately for Elia, Myrcella could not make one. What Obara just spoke of was a rule Myrcella had learned to live by too: anticipating lies and never taking anything at face value. Learning how to look beneath the layers of the obvious (and not so obvious at times) what was already there was a careful art, but if one had patience, one could master it. And if there was one thing that Myrcella did not lack was patience: pain teaches it to you better than any master ever could.

But Elia had not been tempered with the same fires and hurts that Myrcella had been. They had both lost much, but not in the same way. Elia had always been home, with her sisters and people who loved her about her. Not so for Myrcella, though they had loved each other dearly for years. Myrcella had been alone in a foreign place, hated on all sides and distrusted and despised… and hurt for crimes she never committed and faults that were not her own.

_Different flames have made us… and it shows._

"Yes, but there is a difference between the south and the North though." Elia pointed out quickly. "In the south, lying is seen as a matter of course. Something widely accepted-" and she didn't even need to give an example of it, since Obara and Myrcella had just made her point for her there. "-but in the North, they see lying as something to be done unless all other options have been exhausted. Something to be ashamed of, almost."

Obara snorted. "They like to believe their own legends up here, but if you believe they're above treachery and deceit you're a fool."

Elia made a face at her sister, annoyed now. "I don't believe they're above treachery – we were just discussing it, if you recall. And I don't think they're above deceit either. But most seem to prefer direct confrontation to plotting in the shadows. Plotting and scheming are the weapons of cowards – or so the northerners seems to think it. I mean, take at what father says about the King's council: when the bannermen disagree with him, they say so in his face. And there's something to be said too for the kind of King that allows such discussions – I think that is why in the end, the King's will is s absolute among them."

Elia gave Myrcella a considering look, as if she was just hashing something in her mind. "It might work to your advantage, that. You'll know immediately who dislikes you and who does not, whom you may win over in time and whom not. At least as far as I've noticed, northerners tend to be pretty straightforward about their thoughts and feelings."

Myrcella scoffs and rolls her eyes. "Yes, I too have noticed that." Though her admission lacked Elia's unprejudiced tone and felt a little more like she was being sarcastic. The northerners had been free enough with their opinion of her after all.

"Oh, to all hells with them! Forget about the bloody bannermen for a moment!" Obara snapped rather impatiently. She was exponentially impatient when she was hungry. "You'll met them and know them for yourself, which I'm sure you'll prefer. Tell me about the King – it's with _him_ you started this before you saw fit to distract us with talk of strategy and tactics."

Of course she wouldn't give up, Myrcella told herself. Obara never did. But perhaps she did have a point about letting things run their own course. She should worry so much over things she had no power to control.

"There is not much to tell." Myrcella admitted to with a shrug. Without her permission, the memory of his smile as he looked at his daughter came to mind. "I find don't find him quite so frightening anymore and I think I may come to like him, or at the very least tolerate him easily, if the man I see in him is truly the man he is."

Elia just smiled but Obara's eyes were heavy on her full, of contemplation.

"Careful Myrcella." She said after a moment, sounding utterly serious. "Loving one's husband is the very worst thing a wife could do. I'm told its quite the inconvenience."

She speaks so calmly, with such a tone – it dared to be light, conversational almost - that mocked the seriousness and heaviness of those viper eyes that stayed on Myrcella without blinking. Obara's tone made her statement into the worst king of jape: the kind that is not funny at all and begs for tears, not laugher. In Myrcella it only sparks anger.

But she beats it back and raises one challenging eyebrow. "I tell you that I think the man is not as thoroughly monstrous as I'd feared him to be and you caution me against love? That is quite the leap you've made." And despite her want to be cool, her irritation shows.

"Yes perhaps." Obara admits all too easily and immediately Myrcella is suspicious. "So what about the king is troubling you so much that you tried to distract us with talk of his bannermen and all that nonsense?" Obara pushes, a certain bluntness in the enquiry that manages to make itself known even in the simplest of questions. Myrcella narrowed her eyes at her.

_Oh you think you're so smart don't you? Fine then!_

"I was wondering…" but then her nerve failed her. "Well, I was asking myself really, about…"

Oh, _damnation_!

"Spit to out already!" Elia prompts, curious now. Obara's smirk however tells Myrcella that that little viper already knew.

Obara laughed heartedly. "You're wondering about bedding him, aren't you?"

Myrcella winced at her tone, at how much it made Obara laugh and maybe even because she was embarrassed as well. How strange when not even the bawdiest japes made her flinch, and yet she was reduce to such squeamishness by the thought of having a man between her own thighs.

"Stop that." Myrcella hissed at Obara who was still laughing and when that was not enough to make the older woman stop, Myrcella kicked at her thighs with her foot. "_Stop it_! It's _not_ funny."

But this time Myrcella too feel like laughing because, there she was, contemplating that which would be the final goodbye to girlishness, the final step that should make her a woman, and yet, in the face of Obara's teasing, she managed to sound even younger than she actually was. The truly funny part was that Myrcella had always needed to sound older than her years - the occasions for her to show her youth and revel in it had dwindled down to none very fast – and yet this, the one thing that she needed to be grown about, made her return to childishness in a heartbeat.

But Obara didn't stop it – on the contrary she grabbed Myrcella's ankle and pulled, toppling her on the covers and rolling over her – making the princess yelp with surprise and then laughter when Elia joined in.

"You've both lost your minds!" Myrcella shrieked, but she did abandon herself to laughter when Obara tackled her and straddled her thighs keeping them firmly in place and her hands caught in hers, grinning like she was utterly out of her senses… and enjoying a particularly good hunt. Stupid woman!

"What are you so worried about then? He'd handsome, your King. I bet he's pleasant to look at beneath his leathers too – if not a bit pale for my tastes." Elia drawled from close to her head, having curled herself close to Myrcella's side and not doing a single thing to help the princess buckle Obara off her – for which Myrcella glared at her, and which Elia ignored. But it was hard to glare for long, because Obara's fingers managed to tinkle her belly a she held her hands down and Myrcella couldn't help the squirming and giggling it caused her.

"He's not _my_ King yet, and him being handsome has nothing to do with it." Myrcella said with gritted teeth trying not to smile as she pushed upwards with her hips trying to throw Obara off, but to no avail. It only made Obara laugh harder and her robe split down the front to reveal her thighs as she struggled.

"Oh he'll love your golden cunt, don't you worry about that."

Elia laughed and Myrcella rolled her eyes at that. Trust Obara to put things in the most uncomfortable way possible…

Obara spoke without any malice at all – it was a jest and Myrcella could even see the funny side of it, but it also made her think of other things, and just as she did, her body abandoned her struggle and went completely limp. That was when Obara let her go completely and their eyes met… and the understanding passed between them. Obara's smile fell, and her eyes turned serious in a moment.

"Are you afraid, Myr?" she asked as she removed herself from above her and settled on her stomach, by Myrcella's side, so that the princess was lying between Elia and Obara as the laughter died out of the three of them and their breathing slowed.

After a bit of thinking on Obara's question, Myrcella answered it with a nod.

"He seems like the sort to be kind." Obara said then, but even she sounded speculative. The truth was that she could not know that. But when she spoke again and sounded surer. "He is incredibly so with his sisters at least."

Yes, Myrcella had noticed that from afar. The King was capable of tenderness, but he bestowed it only to those he held closest, namely his blood alone.

"Is it the pain that you fear?" Elia enquired and though that made Obara roll her eyes, Myrcella answered all the same.

"No. It's not the pain – I doubt there'll even be much of it – or blood for that matter and I'm thinking I'll have to explain that -"

"Any man who's see you ride would know why, Myr; I don't think you'll have to explain anything." Elia stated as if she was speaking something beyond the obvious.

Myrcella sighed. "I hope so, or I am bound for a decidedly awkward conversation on my wedding night."

Obara huffed. "Not all girls bleed, you know." And then she cast Myrcella a side-glance wand a smile. "Even maidens who _don't_ ride like desert-furies. Men know that, even thick-headed wolves of the north."

Myrcella felt herself smile. "I suppose…"

"Are you afraid he won't be pleased with you? Because if you say yes, I'll call you a liar and a flattery-fisher." Elia said then, half serious, half jesting. The hesitation in Myrcella's eyes made Elia jump up into a sitting position so that she could look at her friend from above as her incredulity exploded.

"Have you lost your senses?" she asked then, putting both hands on her waist, indignation mixing with incredulity. "Or perhaps your memory! Because if you don't recall the men following you around, begging to be your own if only so that they could steal a kiss, I do."

Yes, Myrcella remembered. And she could point out right then and there that they would have been lining up even if she'd had a face like a horse's ass, because what those men truly wanted was to make a token out of the Princess of the Iron Throne. Most – if not all – of them had been nothing but silly creatures too full of themselves that liked to collect trophies and boast about it – and Elia knew that.

But that was not the point anyway. Her fears were not of being unwanted – though that too was a problem of its own. But no, Myrcella's main worry was something else entirely; something that she could not explain to Elia, not now and not ever. Elia had not been there, she did not know what had happened that day in the Red Waste, on their way to the Prince's Pass. And even if she had been, what Myrcella had felt could not be understood from words alone. How could she even explain it: the terror of utter helplessness, the stain it left within you? That frantic need that followed, to never let it happen again, one that transformed you in a creature of walls and vigilant eyes and quick hands that were fast to grab a dagger if anyone got too close without permission. How was Myrcella to abandon that creature's habits and allow for closeness, for submission, when every fibre in her body screamed against it?

What filled Myrcella with trepidation was not the thought of pain, but the suspicion that she really would be a cold fish, paralysed by her own mind, and that she would ruin everything before it even begun. Or worse, that she'd panic and… and…

But she did not need to explain it seemed because Elia's eyes were quick ad her mind was ever quicker. And sometimes she saw much more than one would ever want her to see. Myrcella saw Elia's eyes widen and her mouth slacken, as she looked from Myrcella to Obara in turn as her memory connected the dots and her imagination filled the rest.

"Myr…"

It was a soft murmur as her hand came to catch Myrcella's, but Elia couldn't really form her question. Myrcella held her friend's hand tight and shook her head: 'no' she said without words, it wasn't that way; rape was not what had happened that day. It would have happened, but Obara had put a spear through those plans - and Darkstar's gut - before he could take that from her, as well as her ear and half her face.

Myrcella smiled a little… and surprisingly it was not even forced. "I'm just being silly. You know me: getting tied up in a Meereenese knot all by myself." She got up and slid off the bed, walking to her trunks. "Come, help me chose a dress."

Because really, she should know better than to dwell on the past by now. Down that road laid regret and pain and grief and shame… and a thousand other things that were not conclusive to anything at all, not anything but madness. What had happened was gone now, the only way to move was forward. The past was behind her shoulders and she had more important things to think of: presently, what the seven hells would she be wearing tonight.

"Wear that violet dress that Arianne gifted for your last nameday. I like how it looks on you, with all that gold hair of yours." Obara said slowly, looking at the canopy of Myrcella's bed.

Myrcella knew which one Obara spoke of. It was a silk dress of a violet so deep and vivid that when Myrcella had seen it for the first time she'd wondered how such a colour could even exist. She moved to her trunk and rummaged a little before she found it, laying it on the bed between Obara and Elia. The colour – a deeper shade than heliotrope flowers, more vivid than the darkest lavender - was still as much of a shock as it had been when Myrcella had seen it for the first time; still just as beautiful. She passed a hand over the skirts, feeling the cool smoothness of the fabric. With its long narrow sleeves and high collar, the dress was very modest and truly cut very simply, without any embellishments beyond the golden brocade decorations of the bodice and sleeves. But the simplicity of that dress was a lie, because the true illusion revealed itself only once the dress was put on, in how faithfully the embroidered bodice would cling to her upper body, showing off every gentle curve from breast to waist to hips before flaring into multiple layers of pleated skirts that fell to the floor and trapped the light within its folds the way the best silks do.

Rich cloth, simply cut - just like Elia said. Myrcella smiled a little. Yes, she'd wear this one – with woollen stockings and thick boots since she hated having cold feet, and a nice warm shift beneath.

"Leave your hair lose tonight." Obara said as she looked at her, a wicked smile staring to form on her lips. "They'll stare anyway, might as well give them something worth looking at."

o

o

TBC very soon...

Author Note_: to all those to whom Myrcella seems a little too knowing and mature for her age, I say I would agree, _if_ this was any other fandom; but people have a way of growing up very fast in Westeros and they learn hard lessons all too soon - so I thought it would make sense. I have tried to keep her playful and young when she is comfortable, to balance it._


	7. All the truths that you don't know (pt2)

_- AN: for the dance that you will read about here, I had imagined something very much in the spirit of Roxanne's Dance in 'Alexander' – at least that's what inspired me. Something vaguely eastern-sounding, exotic and seducing. Hope you like – let me know!_

_- Even-_MORE_-ridiculous-length Note: I am **so sorry**! This one is like, 20.000 words worth of descriptions, dialogue and monologues... and i honest to god hope its worth it. Maybe i should split this one as well, but after promising to post it whole, i thought it would be cheating, so I won't break it for now. _

o

_**5**__. All the truths that you don't know (pt2)_

_'I love those who can smile in trouble, who can gather strength from distress, and grow brave by reflection. 'Tis the business of little minds to shrink, but they whose heart is firm, and whose conscience approves their conduct, will pursue their principles unto death.'_

_Leonardo da Vinci_

Arriving at Riverrun had been a blessing in many different ways. A ground to rest and a place to set his men for a few days, ease the horses, rest his soldiers and speak calmly and without haste to his bannermen who would, hopefully, be calmed out of their evil tempers that the harsh marching induced them with.

All these should have been his priorities. He was a King of his people and had a responsibility to each and every one of them… and yet, the moment his eyes fall on his daughter he could no longer find any thought within himself for his army or his men. There could be no words for what he felt, none to adequately describe what it was like when you know you have a piece of yourself cut out from your own body, waiting for you somewhere… and the only moment it stops hurting it's when you set eyes on her again and she is safe, and whole and happy. That Rose remembered him was the very top of his joy, it filled his heart with such happiness that for a moment he thought that, perhaps he had been left in a state of frozen limbo the entire time from the moment he left her, just so that he could feel this way when he saw his daughter again. And when he held her, a tiny bundle of cloth and soft limbs too frail to be real, he finally felt like his own self again. Finally he could draw a true breath and it would rest easily in his lungs.

'_We're going home soon._' He told his daughter as he put her in her tiny bed, hours later. She'd fallen asleep on his shoulder – after spilling ink on the table, crinkling half his letters and stuffing in her mouth the wooden direwolf he used to pinpoint the location of his forces. She'd done that and more – Sansa and Arya and mother chasing her around his solar, laughing after her, none of them having the heart to get her to stop. Little Rose had them all wrapped around her tiny fingers and unfortunately for his desk and maps, her father was no exception either.

As Robb sat by his little girl's crib and watched her sleep – the heart-shaped face and puffy pink cheeks, the round lips just slightly open as she took breath after soft breath - he found his thoughts going to his own father.

Robb wondered about his father more these days, as time went on and the responsibilities of the crown he'd never wanted piled up and made him feel so much older than his one and twenty. What had Ned Stark felt, Robb asked himself, when Rickard and Brandon Stark had been killed by the Mad King? What had he felt, riding into war when he was barely more than a boy himself, with responsibilities that were never meant to be his at all? Ned Stark too had had to sent men to war to die, thousands of them; he had fought and killed who knew how many, he had lost a father, a brother and a sister… What had been his father's thoughts when he climbed the steps of the Tower of Joy only to find his sister Lyanna dead? Or when he went back home and his uncle Benjen was already set on taking the Black? His father's family, his history, all that he had known of his house had burned to ashes during Robert's rebellion and Ned Stark had been left alone: the one Stark in Winterfell. He had returned to a whole life that had never meant to be his in the first place. Had his father felt like a stranger walking Winterfell's halls? Ned Stark - _my father, he was my father_ - had always seemed to Robb born to be exactly who he had become: Lord of Winterfell. There was nobody else Robb could imagine as such. But then again, there were plenty of those that could see none but him as King of Winter… and sometimes when he heard that, Robb felt like they were speaking nonsense. There had been no Kings of Winter for three hundred years! Now he was the first. Had been for years, and would be for many more, it seemed. And now more than any other time, what Robb wished he could do was speak to his own father about the doubts and fears that he still harbored in his heart. But Ned Stark was dead and all Robb could do was wonder what it had felt like for the father he'd loved, when he had gotten a title that he too never expected to receive. Robb did not know the answer to that. He had ever known Ned Stark as a father, and those were questions Robb had never thought to ask before. Thoughts like those had never even brushed by his skull before the war, and by then it had been too late. Time had seemed eternal, until one day it wasn't.

There were nights when he couldn't stop dreaming about his father in the dungeons of the Red Keep, hungry and hurting and alone with only his doubts to prey upon him. These were dreams of darkness and pervaded by a sense of heavy dread, fear and regret. The ghosts of nightmares and the past that seemed just around the corner, shades that Robb could never catch a glimpse of but that he feared all the same. and it didnt even matter that in his dreams RObb could not quite tell if the ghosts that haunted him were his own or his father's. It did not even matter: the thought alone of his father rooting in a dungeon and dying alone was enough to make Robb want to tear his hair off sometimes.

He had heard it said that his father had had to chose between his honour and the lives of his daughters. That Ned Stark had been made to declare himself a liar and a traitor in front of all of King's Landing, only to have his head cut off for his effords. Had his father known, suspected, that his words might bring him to his death regardless? Had he chosen to speak those damming words regardless, for Sansa and Arya alone? Chosen love over honour, lies over his own given word?

Robb ran a finger gently down Rose's tiny arm, feeling her skin so soft and miraculous… and knew in his heart that if it came to it, he would burn the whole world down to the bone for that little girl sleeping so soundly in her bed, duty and honour be damned. If it was ehr life in the balance, his honour would mean little: for her he would pay the price that he would never be willing to pay for himself. It was a fierce feeling, of the kind he'd never felt before, not like this; one that he could barely comprehend and yet knew in his heart that he didn't need to. It was on the same scale with all the other truths of the world: the sun rises every morning, the night follows the day as winter follows summer, and so it is that you love your children and you'd die for them, kill for them and if you must, lie for them as well.

Anything, _everything_, for your children.

His father had taught him that, and his mother both.

The soft knock on the open door called him back to the present and when he looked behind himself he saw Sansa, swathed in a dress of the softest blue he'd ever seen, shiny silks over warm and soft wool and simple flowery patterns woven with silver thread in the delicate fabrics, looking every bit the princess she was and smiling at him knowingly. With her hair unbound and about her, she looked the living emblem of House Tully. He knew enough of her now to suspect it had been intentional.

"They're waiting for us." His sister said softly and Robb nodded. He got up, left a light kiss on his sleeping daughter's brow, ever careful not to disturb her sleep, and then left the room, leaving Sansa to close the door behind him.

"She is a beautiful child Robb. And so very sweet as well." His sister said around a smile as she tucked her arm around his elbow. His smile widened.

"Yes she is." He said and tried not to think too much of the mother that had given him that child. Roslyn would have adored her, he knew.

Sansa gave a small laugh, something caught between surprise and amazement. "I still cannot believe it: I have a niece… and you a daughter." And then, after a short pause, she spoke more softly. "It's not so strange, I know. It's as it should be. And yet, it seems to me sometimes that as if it were yesterday that we were children ourselves."

Robb looked at his sister from the corner of his eye. It had been such a long time since they had been together like this, on a quiet evening, about to dine in the hall with their family. Years really since their family had not been scattered throughout all corners of Weteros… and even then, even as children in Winterfel, Robb and Sansa had never been as close as they felt now. She was too young, too much of a girl then full of her own thoughts - and he had been just the same. She had changed though, changed so much from the girl he remembered that sometimes it felt as if she was not the same person anymore. And she was not. There were heavy things in her eyes that told him so, that likened her gaze to his more now, in both sharpness and expression, as well as their frosted Tully shade of blue.

Robb wondered if he too looked like a different person from her eyes; if sometimes she looked at him and it was a stranger she saw and not her own brother.

In the end it did not matter. Time did not, and neither how much it had changed them. They were altered but they were still family: they were the blood of Winterfell and would be till the day they died. All the changes and the space and emptiness between them had not mattered when he'd seen her again after so long: when he'd held her, safe in his arms again, it had been as if she sister never left his side. She had been his little sister then, just as Arya had become when he'd held her for the first time after years, and he had felt his eyes prickle with tears when his little wild sister had held herself so still and cold in his arms, as if she didn't quite dare believe that she was there with her family again.

In Winterfell, before the war, none of them had known the keen pain of missing family… and now that they all did, and that string had only pulled them closer than ever before, whether they liked it or not. Arya was ever watchful, ever weary of the smallest thing that could go wrong. She was changed and much fiercer, but still very much within her own nature and sometimes, for all her growling and jaw-snapping, Robb could see the frightened little girl still living beneath the hard skin of steel his sister wore like an armor. Sansa on the other hand... she was differently altered. It was as if she wanted to wash over her family all the love and affection that she had been denied these long years, as if all the amounts of it had been accumulating inside her and now were spilling in endless smiles and hugs and kisses, armfuls of honest love that tasted bittersweet... and which echoed inevitably with the sound of deep and painful loneliness. She was so much more grown than Robb remembered her - it still surprised him sometimes how open to the world her eyes were now, how quickly she could understand his mind once she got the gist of his thoughts. She seemed to sense him so acutely. Some days all it took between them was a look, and she'd know what he needed from her - something which never failed to surprise him... and make him feel as if they truly had never been a moment apart at all. She was perceptive, his sister, and full of things that nobody else noticed. Robb only wished that he could have the same understanding of her needs as she seemed to have of his. But for all the frankness the shared between them, there were creases in Sansa's mind as well and dark things hidden between them that she'd rather speak to nobody about (as there were in his, after all… and Arya's too, and mothers. Sansa was simply better at hiding them than all her family combined). Edges that made him feel as if he'd lost her for an entire lifetime, and not just a few years.

The distance of time and growing was both material and ephemeral at the same time, it seemed, and could be both solid as rock and as unreal as the memory of a dream.

Robb turned his head to look at Sansa in the eyes, a memory coming back to him then, one that he thought he had forgotten.

"Remember our last day in Winterfell? Before you left with father for the capital?"

Sansa's eyes flickered to his. Pain was always like a sharp flash in her expression whenever a mention of their father was made, but she nodded and smile faintly. "I remember. You had snow melting in your hair."

Did he? That he could not recall. He remembered laughing with his sisters however and putting Sansa on her horse himself. She'd been so small then, a little girl.

"It seems to me sometimes as if a thousand years have passed since that day." Robb said slowly, softly as if voicing out loud would make it all too real, and lengthen the time they had spent apart as if by magic. Fears were such silly notions: they made fools out of even the wisest of men, apparently; and turned even warriors back into boys.

Sansa's hand on his sleeve tightened and Robb felt the pressure of her fingers on his wrist, all the things that she did not say were there. Her smile was tremulous but grew sure as her eyes grew shiny.

"We'll be home soon, brother." She said softly… and Robb couldn't help but smile at that. His sister promised him the same thing he had promised his daughter only moments ago. It was the truth that the war seemed to have reminded them all of: there must always be a Stark in Winterfell, yes, but that coin had another face: Starks _belonged_ in Winterfell, every last one of them. Its ancient walls called to them, sang them home from every distance, even across time. The north was their home, the winter was in their bones and it was from its frosty blades that they drew their strength, where it only daunted other men. It was north they all turned towards, when they looked of home and peace and a life that starts again. Winterfell was where they belonged and its song was in their blood, as it had been for thousands of years; the high grey walls of granite were the call of every wolf, a call that echoed in every tree and every stone; a song that was repeated to them from every heart tree and their weeping eyes. Home was the godswood and the darkness of winter too, the summer snows, the crypts of their forefathers and all that lay in between. Winterfell was hope of a life that didn't feel interrupted anymore.

They would be home soon, yes… and wanderers no longer.

Sansa leaned her head a little closer to her brother, the look in her eyes lighter, the smile on her face teasing.

"You've forgotten your manners completely, haven't you brother? Too much time among soldiers, I reckon." she said, bumping her shoulder with his – or rather with his arm, because though uncommonly tall, his sister was still shorter than himself.

"And what have I forgotten now?" he asked, playing to her tune. It cost him nothing to let his sister string him along, allowing themselves small freedoms; pretenses of forgetting some of the things that made them sad. Sansa was especially good at it.

"You have not complimented me on my appearance yet. It's bad manners not to tell a lady she looks lovely."

Robb's smile turned lopsided. "Haven't you yet grown tired of hearing it? I'm sure you know exactly how beautiful you look."

And if the Sansa he remembered would have once blushed and ducked her head; his sister now laughed low and leaned her arm against his further.

"Oh I know it. But a lady never tires of hearing it, especially when it's spoken sincerely." She stated.

Robb rolled his eyes. "When I meet this lady you speak of, I'll make sure to tell her, sister."

It was men to be a jape at Sansa's poor teasing, but his sister's smile was much too aware for his tastes. Looking at it Robb felt as if he'd just played into her hands, though he didn't know for what, didn't even know they'd been playing at all.

"Make sure you do. And try not to stare too much as well. It's flattering to the lady, but you wouldn't want others to notice it too openly." Sansa continued, more enigmatically than usual and this time Robb turned questioning eyes at her. What was she speaking of? But Sansa had already diverted the subject and into a territory so new that even had Robb truly wanted to know what she'd meant, he wouldn't have had a chance to ask.

"I even managed to get Arya into a dress. A red one, would you believe it? She looks _beautiful_ and I doubt anyone will even recognize her - but don't say that to her or she'd turn her nose up and come back into the feast in breeches and a shirt."

Robb stared at his sister as if she was utterly absurd. "Alright… how did you manage to get her into a dress?" mother had been trying for months and to no avail. True, she did not insist too much, but still…

Sansa's smile was co and knowing at the same time. "I have my ways." And that was that.

Robb was about to turn and ask her further when she stopped her steps and, in turn, he had to do the same. He looked up to see his mother rounding a corner and smiling at him, his sister too - stunning in her red dress, just like Sansa had said she looked, with her short dark hair shiny and her pale face clean, grey eyes serious and just a little bit irritated, as Arya always looked when she was uncomfortable. The sight made Robb smile widely and unguarded, in that way that he reserved for his family alone… and that smile froze on is lips when he looked just over their shoulders and saw the princess, hovering in the corner, hands clasped in front of her as the Snakes, dressed in the bright colors of their country, surrounded her with talk and smiles. Among the tones of gold and orange of their dresses, the warm bonze and bright, fluttering silks, the princess's intense-violet dress made her look darker and more serious… yet she was a sight as vivid as any. And if before Robb had seen her wearied by the long marching and the cold, now he saw her as she was: a princess.

Her every feature stood out for all those with eyes to see, from the deep pink of her lips and the sun-kissed shade of her skin, to the green eyes made brighter still, surrounded as it was by waves and waves of hair that in the light of the candles looked a deep shade of gold, as if truly is was spun from the very same.

Looking at her then, it was so easy to believe that she had been created by the gods solely for the purpose of distraction.

Robb didn't know if he'd been willingly blind to her before, or if it was the fact that he felt he knew a little more of her now – at least enough perhaps, to admit without too much regret or resentment that _yes_, the sight of her had managed to literally stun him for a moment; made him feel as if he'd looked at her – looked for lies, deceit and manipulation, for her secrets (that he had not uncovered) and the shades of her nature that he could manage to learn - but never really _seen_ her before this moment. Or rather, he'd refused to admit to the most superficial thing about her: her face, her loveliness…

He could admit to it now though: she was utterly lovely in her own way; even that scar on her cheek and her watchful eyes could not take away from that both exotic and familiar in the same breath. He was forced to concede the princess her beauty, because at this point not even a blind man would deny it, she was just _that_ difficult a sight to ignore; made especially so because Robb knew that he had not seen loveliness so vibrant, so bold, in quite a long time. The reason didn't matter in the end. All he knew was that, try as he might, she was difficult to look away from… and in the same space that the admitted that, he also realized the thrill of danger that the admission comprised: the razor sharp blade that the power a woman like her could hold over a man who had forgotten what beauty looked like, the headiness it provoke, like strongwine in the belly.

Their eyes met from the distance, as if she'd felt him watching. She inclined her head to him in greeting and Robb found himself doing the same. The ghost of a smile hovered on her lips – small but true - as if she didn't quite dare decided whether she wanted to smile at him or not, before she gave him one of those glazed smiles that she had in her royal arsenal… and he found himself wanting to see the teasing tilt of that smile, whenever she thought of something that amused her, or the brightness of it when she'd rather laugh, but decided she should not. Her true expressions were few and far in between - most of the time she guarded them as closely she guarded her words around him. And perhaps it was for that reason that he liked them more: they felt real where all else about her felt practiced. Not false exactly, but still… she denied herself to all but those she kept closest – something for which Robb did not fault her for, but he had to admit he had not expected that kind of quiet, undemanding reserve from her - it made her the strangest Lannister he had ever met by far. Still, Robb could see that the princess tried to be reasonably open with him, approachable and as much her won true self as she dared to be, even though she never shed her title. And though she was very well controlled always, sometimes she slipped, as even the best are wont to do.

Those flashes of stubbornness or irritation, amusement or sharp irony, they were the ones that he most liked to catch. They were glimpses of the person that lived _beneath_ the polish of her royal detachment, that finer manner that she'd been fed from birth. Those things, the not so careful things, were the woman he was bound to marry.

That fraction of a smile earlier, that pause between her eyes and her lips – _that_ had been the true smile she had given him.

Robb felt Sansa's sharp elbow nudging him in the ribs (and for a very short moment, a heartbeat, he was back in Winterfell, a boy, with his sister elbowing him on the dinner table to remind him of manners).

"Remember what I told you about staring, brother." She whispered, and when he looked at her face she looked as impish as Arya did when she successfully got away with something she should not be doing. Robb gave her a twitch of one eyebrow, to dare her to say more. But she did not, she only laughed and let go of him in favour of their mother.

It didn't escape his notice just how serious his mother looked. In the back of his mind he heard again the words she had spoken to him, a warning given just a few days ago when his mother had seen him with the princess smiling at whatever she had said to him then - Robb did not even remember anymore. He did remember his mother's words though, those that she had spoke in a blank ton with eyes that wouldn't meet his, but that chose to stare at the table instead - at where Winterfell was on the map.

_'Take care, my son... the beautiful ones are always the best liars.'_

oOo

While he ate and spoke with the men around him, Robb had almost forgotten that he was not in the camp, having dinner among his bannermen and his royal guard – the sons of those bannermen. The people and the talk were the same, but the mood around them was not. Riverrun had a wide hall, lit by countless candles and tall ceiling that made for an open space. The noise was loud and lighthearted, resounding with laughter more often than usual. The subjects under discussion changed and interwove so often that Robb couldn't remember what he had been speaking a moment before once he changed topics. But it didn't matter: his men were unperturbed and merry once the music started and the dancing began, so did the true feast, one that celebrated a won war and the peace to come.

That was when the guests left their tables and started moving about, pockets forming here and there, of lords and ladies that exchanged talk among each other, before joining the dances. Robb did not leave his place and neither did his mother or the Greatjon, Karstark and Galbard Glover among others, but his sisters did. Arya found herself comfortable among the Sand Snakes – that was Lady Nym talking to her now, and by the looks of it, showing her how to hold a dagger before throwing it - while Sansa walked the hall pausing to address the guests, speaking to them seriously and charming them by turns, her smiles irresistible as far as men and women alike were concerned. As he watched her, Robb found himself wondering of the future: he had never held court, never been part of one, but Sansa had lived in King's Landing for years… and as he looked his sister gather lords and ladies about her, he found himself wondering if the Great Hall of Winterfell would ever be suited to something like this; if this was what courtly life was like, or if it would be like the councils during the war, always speaking to different lords, always negotiating for something.

He imagined it would be something of both… and admittedly, the thought alone seemed to tire him. But his attention was thankfully drawn away from his grim thoughts and to another corner of the hall by a burst of laughter very close to the high table… and there _she_ was.

It seemed strange but he had managed to forget entirely about her and her beauty both, for as long as he was not looking at her. And now that she was within the line of his sight, he could not look away.

She was sitting by Dacey and Maege Mormont, Elia Sand by her side in a foreign-fashioned dress of a bold sunflower-yellow decorated by paler suns and a bronze belt, little bronze chains woven through her black braids. There were others around them, Mormont's men by the looks of them, and all seemed to be laughing at something the princess was saying. Dacey and Elia were flanking her closely and had Robb not known better, he would have said that their stance was almost protective – especially Dacey's, seeing that he knew her better and therefore could read her easier: her quick hazel eyes darted about every now and then, landing hard on some lord or lady whose eyes were not so kind.

Dacey had taken a shine to the princess, and in a way it gave Robb a sort of comfort to know it - or rather, to see that it was possible. All his men without exception had been hostile to the idea of Cercei Lannister's daughter as queen – whether she was a bastard or not - and Robb could not fault them for it. But he could not have said 'no', not to the terms she came with from her grandfather… and Robb suspected Tywin bloody Lannister had known that.

But he would not think of that. It was done now… and perhaps he was being foolish, but he did not resent it as much as he had in the beginning.

As he dared admit that to himself for the first time, Robb found himself smiling: despite knowing that beauty was like a blade without a hilt, he still thought he wouldn't mind holding it a bit, as if he thought himself as the one man that the blade wouldn't cut.

He should know better than that – the girl he spoke of was Cercei Lannister's daughter and the Kingslayer's bastard…

And there it was again, the unfairness of it all, what made that girl - the Iron Throne Princess - such a double-edged sword. Because despite knowing her so very superficially, Robb was nevertheless sure that there was more to her than a pretty face and scandalous name; that she was neither of her parents - though there seemed to be in her echoes of both - and that this much was obvious whenever he spoke to her, in the little gestures that she made, the small discoveries he could unravel from her, ever so slowly. And yet, she could not _stop_ being her parents' daughter, her grandfather's niece, her brother's sister. All the reasons she was there were the reasons nobody wanted her there… which was a shame, since beneath her reserve and usual coolness of manner, the princess really did seem to be of a sweet sentiment. There was a certain charm about her, one that she yielded masterfully and - to her credit - with a transparent sincerity that precluded falseness, because she knowingly used her charm to amuse rather than weave webs around him. In fact, Robb had found that the princess was, in that particular context, quite the pleasant distraction – she knew how to be one spectacularly well and practiced her talent deliberately, and so well that when he concentrated in unravelling her, he forgot about other things that, at other times, weighted more heavily on his mind.

He could see the effect she had even now, as he watched her speak from a distance: her presence echoed around the hall like ripples of a thrown stone in a pond, loud and clear. The awareness that people had of her was sharp, the command she had over a room's attention, powerful. It would have been so even if she were not so notorious by association – but it was amplified by her name and birth, whether she liked it or not.

Heads did turn whichever way she went that night… and in that light, Robb found once again that her stubbornness showed: she refused to be guided by the hand in anything: not when she stood before him and looked him in the eye as an equal, nor around the camp among men that looked at her with contempt. Even now, when so many were only less obvious in their distaste, she did not seek the protective company of the Snakes or his sister. She'd rather face it down herself.

As irritating as the implicit challenge had been at first - especially that time when she dared seek (or was it '_demand'?_) his company alone, as if she had a right to it - Robb could not help but respect her for it now that he understood her a little better. She did not act out of self-importance, not entirely, though there was a great deal of pride in her. Her actions seemed to be more motivated by a stubborn need to be acknowledged as worthy in her own right.

Now _that_, he could understand a little better. He had not been quite so disregarding (_reckless perhaps?_) as she was being about it, but he certainly could understand the sentiment.

So he watched her. People moved about to meet and speak to other people, the company rotated like a wheel and the princess moved with it: she walked around the hall and waited until the next person that wanted to speak to her found her – and those were not for wanting. The princess greeted everyone with a pleasant smile and the polite interest of the well-mannered. Such a presence she made in all her lady's graces that Robb thought again, for the second time within mere hours, that he had not seen her at all before this night, not like this: this was a princess holding court that she had transformed herself into, walking about the hall and sizing up men and woman with a glance (he could _see_ her doing it, how her mind calculated each and every person she met. Those eyes were like quicksilver and thought they hid much, not even she could hide it all).

Charm and grace and a hundred other subtle things she was yielding like a good warrior yields a sword, and it made her into a different person, warm and cheerful, bright as torch. She would have mesmerized the entire hall to her submission just as Sansa so easily did, had the stain of her family name and sins not been so heavy on her person. She sipped from her cup like a bird, spoke with many and smiled warmly to all. Anyone less observant might not have noticed, but there was a pattern to her movements: she did not actively join anyone except for Elia or Obara (and once or twice even Sansa) every once in a while, for a reprieve and a sincere smile. Rather, the princess waited for others to come to her presence and if that was because of arrogance or dignity, or perhaps a bit of both, Robb could not say.

Once or twice, he saw Prince Oberyn appear by her side and steal her for a simple-tuned turn or two on the dancefloor. She smiled at him with true smiles - small and real - and watchful eyes. There seemed to be a queer understanding between them, one that Robb did not feel he understood properly: they were both people of too many layers to be unveiled quite so easily. Still… she looked beautiful when she danced, as fascinating as an exotic oddity, and perhaps made even more unique because she was unlike any other person in that hall: trapped as she was between the foreignness of the dornishmen she had grown up with, so obviously different in their customs and appearance, and the familiarity of a westerosi born north of the Red Mountains. The princess was both and she was neither – and when she took the floor to dance, half the people in that hall stopped to stare… though Robb was sure, their reason for looking were different from his own.

Curiosity was a human feeling, Robb knew that, and a human weakness. He'd be curious about her too… hells, he _was still_very much so, but perhaps unlike all those that considered her a queer attraction in display, he had more solid reasons to ground his curiosity on: after all, she was to be his wife. And besides, simple curiosity was not the issue, as Robb soon came to observe. What he took issue with was that hunger he saw in so many eyes when that tracked her; a glinting intent like the one he sometimes saw being directed at himself, only, in the face of the Lannister princess, none bothered to be particularly subtle about it. They circled her with glinting eyes and sharp smiles and it was not hard to think of vultures, as if they were wanting to tear the flesh from her bones in their hurry, in their hunger. Robb knew the feeling well and he had never liked it, but he appreciated it even less now that it was directed to someone who was… well, who was a _woman,_ for starters.

Even though she looked nothing like it now, it was still all too easy for him to recall the princess' tearful eyes that day in the middle of camp and it was because of that sharp memory that he could not easily forget she was as human as he was, made of flesh and blood and fears and doubts - and if one managed to strip her of that confidence that seemed to be as unshakable as a hundreds-year-old oak, the princess showed her youth so much that, had he been the boy he once was, Robb was sure it would have pierced him all the way to his heart. But though a boy any longer, the thinly-veiled bad manners she was treated with by some still made something inside him curl up in distaste. A distaste that soon translated into irritation, for her sake, and his own as well: whoever Myrcella Baratheon had been before didn't matter anymore; here and now she was the woman that their King was going to marry and she should be treated as such!

Even Sansa had warned him of it. Told him that Myrcella was not the enemy and she should be treated with caution, but not distain, lest he should make her into his enemy with his own hands. She was wise and very much right, his sister, but Robb could not explain that to all the lords that looked at the princess and only saw Cercei Lannister.

It made him wonder though, if the disliked her so much, why the bloody hell speak to her at all? Why not keep it to themselves? Or were they trying to prove some kind of superiority in her face, now that she was just a Lannister among strangers with no visible power to yield?

Robb scoffed in his cup, sipping his wine without truly tasting it at all. People who lose those they love always wanted revenge, on the gods if they can't find anyone else – and Robb knew that better some and more intimately than most - but if any of those lords and ladies down there thought they would find a soft target on the Lannister princess, they should take a long second look at her, and then mayhap a third. Robb himself knew little of her, but even that little he ha dgathered was enough to know that there was nothing anyone could say to Myrcella of House Baratheon that would even touch her, let alone hurt her. There was something sharp about her, something that had the potential of burning hot and cutting deep; a quality to her character that the princess painstakingly tried to hide beneath smiles and lighthearted wit and charm. Robb didn't know her well enough to be able to grasp _what_ that quality about her was, but he did know that she was capable of many things and that those who'd think of hurting her should reflect over it well before acting.

(he would have thought her a schemer and a liar for how had she tried to hide her edges from the eyes of all about her, had she not been a bit freer with that part of herself when she was with him alone. That had been when he had understood that no amount of charm could ever make this princess open herself to him, even if Robb still remembered how to go about that kind of thing. But _patience_ – patience just might work.)

He thought of those dark and hidden corners of Myrcella Baratheon's character, and wondered if perhaps he wouldn't mind seeing her unleashed upon those that thought it entertaining to ragger her about. Perhaps he'd even stand by and let it happen. She was a patient creature, this princess, but not even the most well-paced man or woman could be patient forever. Perhaps he was even curios: what would her fire look like, what would it feel like?

(But those were thoughts fueled by his cock, no doubt, and not his brain.)

Tolerance and serenity however, was all the princess showed to the guests of Riverrun that night. She carried herself with straight backed and unperturbed as she smiled and fended off subtle attacks with practiced cool courtesy. She could not bend anyone to her will just yet, but her defensive tactics were, Robb had to admit, utterly flawless. It must be disheartening, he thought to himself, amused, to bash against a wall that wouldn't even chirp, let alone yield. And that was what the princess reminded him of: a pretty thing surrounded by thick high walls painted with the shiny varnish of etiquette. It gave her an unreachable quality, creating a palpable distance between her person and everyone else. Her dignity was the bricks and her pride the mortar: and both formed an armor against which every look and sneer simply bounced off, leaving her untouched. She smiled pleasantly through it all, - a void smile on a warm face, but one that did not waver.

Robb wondered if it even amused her – that glint in her eye every now and then was not faked. What was she laughing at? Whom?

It stunned him for the entire width of two seconds when he realized that he would have liked to ask her, to hear her answer. He had no doubt that it would have made him smile. She could have a biting sort of humor, her backhanded irony teased him, and one that could easily become heavy-handed, if she pleased. It was her way of evening the field he supposed: they sneered at her, she made fun of them. Not an entirely _right_ way perhaps… but fairness was rather scarce in her circumstance, so he didn't fault her for her little amusements at all.

"You forgot my advice so soon, Robb, I wonder if you even heard it at all."

Robb would be a liar if he said that his sister's voice did not surprise him. He turned his head to his right and found her there, sitting primly on an empty chair, looking at him with a small knowing smile. She was needling him… and it was working, Robb realized, amused at himself.

He could do that now – smile and laugh at himself. It had been a long time since he last could, but with his sisters, he had that freedom.

"I've forgotten nothing." Robb said, trying not to smile. "You look lovely this night, sister."

Sansa raised one thin eyebrow at him, pursing her lips. "Why, thank you brother. But perhaps your charms would be of better use if they were lavished upon she whom you have been staring at all evening."

Robb's lips twitched. His _charm_ indeed! He'd long lost track of what charm he'd once had, but it seemed his sister was determined to make him find it again.

But he was not one to go gently into the night, as time had proved.

"So formal. I'm not getting on your nerves am I?" he asked, raising one eyebrow at her. Sansa rolled her eyes at him openly and finally Robb smiled fully at the face she made. She seemed so composed and put together all the time that watching her release all that and fall back into a freer self was always a small pleasure... and a small relief.

"Not in the least." Sansa said haughtily, but then shook her head and just like that, the little game was over, and the eyes that looked at him were honest and true. "Really Robb, why don't you ask her for a dance?" and then her eyes got more serious still, a small pucker appearing between her brows. "Almost everyone is being insufferably rude to her, you know, throwing little quips left and right, as if she couldn't smell their intentions a mile away."

There is an edge of anger there that Robb suspects is not entirely on the Princess' behalf, but then again he can only imagine what his sister is thinking because even if he was callous enough to ask her right then, she would brush him off with a smile and a little shake of her head, and immediately change the subject in such a way that he'd be bound to let it go for another time.

Not that he would ask her anyway. Not now at least. Perhaps even not ever. Sansa's tales about King's Landing unleashed something in him that Robb tried very hard to keep under control. Something dark and dangerous and reckless that was no good for him or the men under him.

A strange smile curved Sansa's lips, one that was new to his sister and that never seized to surprise Robb for it: it was the smile of a woman that is having a bitter thought, but that amuses her anyways.

"It's almost funny, how cleanly she dispatches them." Sansa said, looking him in the eye then. "She used to do just the same in the Red Keep, but she was a lot less kind about it then - and much more amusing, I must admit. It made attending court almost bearable those last few months."

Robb felt a frown settle on his face but he kept silence. If there was one thing he had learned of his sister these past few weeks that she had been back with him, was that Sansa never dallied with words, even when she seemed to be speaking in circles. So this time Robb didn't even ask, he only stared at her without blinking for a moment or two, waiting for his sister to make her point, which she did after a weary sigh.

"If you let people indulge in their pettiness long enough, brother, at least one of them is bound to do something stupid." She said meaningfully…

He was about to ask his sister if she had someone particular in mind, but Karstark was nowhere close to the princess and the Blackfish was down there, shadowing her from afar, as Robb had asked him to, precisely for the purpose of preventing anything out of the line from happening.

"What are you proposing, then?" Robb asked, just for the sake of listening to what Sansa had to say, because when it came to these more subtle dealings of society, he had found out soon enough that he had little practice at them, and she all but too much of it. Sansa smiled, and made off with the surprise in her eyes with only one blink. She had been so stunned in the beginning, when he asked her for her opinion, and spoke with such care and hesitation. She was not used with being asked anything, speaking about anything or being listened to, and that she was now always seemed so surprise her. She should not have: she was home now and she was his sister. And if he had to encourage her to believe it every time, then he would.

"Come dance a turn with me. Then with Arya or mother. And _then_ ask the princess for a dance as well."

Robb raised one eyebrow at her. "And my dancing with her will make so much of an impact that the lords and ladies will change their manners?" he didn't try to hide his disbelief at all, in the face of which Sansa only smiled however.

"It should remind them of who she is and why she's here at least. And that she will be their _queen_ one day very soon."

Robb would have liked to say that perhaps that was the very reason for some of the resentment the Princess was being show, but he did not have the chance to do so. Sansa had not yet even finished her words when and unnatural hush fell over the hall, starting at the heart of the hall and spreading in ripples all the way to the corner where. Sensing the halting silence in the air, even the musicians stopped their tunes. The unnatural stillness of what had been a merry company just a moment before drew Robb's attention like a call… and it took one look over the Hall to know what had happened.

He saw it in his mind's eye as if he had truly seen it happening: the princess being begged for a dance; the music that went on and she that moved among the couples ever so gracefully with that glazed smile on her face… and then a foot in the wrong place, or a spin a little too careless and a partner all too eager not to steady her. As he looked he found himself thinking that, even if that same hall had been as silent as a crypt, nobody would have heard the princess make a sound as she fell.

And there she was now, sprawled on the stone floor of the hall, the curtain of gold that was her hair hiding her face so he could not see it at all, let alone read it, with a boy that hesitated for a moment too long – the look on his face transparent enough to see the smugness beneath - before he offered blank apologies and aid. Aid that the princess did not even have the time to decline (he could see, as she began to raise herself from the ground, that she had no intention of taking that outstretched hand) before the Blackfish grabbed the boy by the back of his neck and shoved him aside so forcefully that the youth staggered and would have fallen face first himself, had another not steadied him.

Robb felt his muscles tense and he began to rise, but Sansa's hand on his arm stopped him. "Wait." Was all she whispered as they watched the princess accept the Blackfish's hand and the old knight helped her up on her feet again.

She stood straight and tall and blank-faced as she brushed the dust off her skirts, and Robb knew then with a clarity he had not had before that he was going to marry a woman that was capable of absorbing all the strength of the blows she was dealt and that never would she ever grace anyone with any part of herself for it. If anyone down there was expecting to see her waver into a creature a little more easily hurt, they were bound to be disappointed: all she had for them was the inflexibility of cold-rolled steel, as if there were no emotion at all living beneath her face.

But what truly surprised Robb was how far she was willing to go to prove that she was not helpless nor was she harmless… and how easily she managed to do it – with a simple dance, just like Sansa said.

ooo

She had fallen on her face plenty of times before, literally and figuratively both. She knew what it was to lose track of your limbs and feel that small bite of panic, like the prick of a bee, before the hard surface of the earth slapped you, unforgivingly and without fail. She had in fact, known the feeling so intimately that she knew what would happen the moment her foot caught on another and she missed her next step. She knew and did not flail like a fish out of water, did not even flinch of gasp. She had not the time for it, it all happened so fast.

In that moment when she fell and her own weight did not matter, she was void of all thoughts and all worries… and she would not remember it after, but she knew that that was exactly what happiness tasted like, and freedom.

But the next moment, her palms slapped the stone of the floor and she felt the blow echo all the way to her shoulders. Her knees landed hard, taking all her weight and as the bite of pain came, so did the rush of anger, seething inside her with a hiss and a growl.

She did not see the way everyone around her froze, the fast turn of so many heads. Nor did she see the way Obara caught Elia's arm and froze her, not allowing her to come and help, knowing that she should not, not this time. These were the times when Myrcella was all on her own, when any kind of rushing held would have been seen as a weakness on her part… and she felt it too. She felt her own fingers shape into claws as the weight of the daggers hiding in both her boots became heavier than ever. But instead of reaching for one of them her nails bit into stone instead, hurting as she pulled herself up. But it didn't matter, none of it did. She was tearing at stones instead of that fool's face who thought he could do as he liked with her… and _that_ more than anything made her want to unleash the true meaning of violence upon him.

She was a Princess, a Lannister, a creature of the desert. She was the daughter of a merciless queen and an honourless kingslayer, sister to a vicious king and niece to the cruelest man Westeros had ever known. She was born of lions and raised by vipers. She was the Myrcella who had outwitted the schemers of the Red Keep more than once and torn a man's throat out with her teeth!

...and she was as powerless as a new-born kitten.

The thought alone was enough to flood her veins with white-hot rage.

It was in moments like these, when she was closest to the madness inside her, that her mother's voice whispered to Myrcella the loudest. She was full of hisses, her mother, little secrets of contempt, threats, venom and cruelty… all things that Myrcella had known well and survived to, all things that she could reproduce most faithfully, well enough to curdle the blood in the veins of any man.

_And we would see then, if they dare do anything to me again!_

And it was in moments like these - when the thought of being feared started tasting the sweetest, when her bloodthirst was so deep that she could almost taste it – that Myrcella was grateful for the life she had led and the all the things that it had taught her. Because it was when she forgot herself utterly that some memories came back to her, undeniable and undaunted even by her rages. It was in times like these, when she wanted to become all that came easiest, that she could not forget the desolation of a life spent hating, and the bitterness that fear left behind. She knew all too well the price of vengeance and the taste of blood in her mouth. She could not unsee that, unfeel that – she _would_ not until she died, she had _promised_. And it really was in times like these that those promises she'd made to the dead and to the sand proved hardest to keep, and also, the strongest link to her own self.

Breath by scorching breath Myrcella pushed her feelings into something more controllable, something that she could mold and use, and something that would answer to her own nature without damaging it irreparably. Something in short, that would not alienate her so thoroughly from whom the person that Myrcella had chosen she would become… and something that would allow her to be cold and unflinching, because she could feel the weight of every eye in the room upon her.

And it was a good thing that sometime she could force her feelings into quiet submission so thoroughly, because by the time she took sir Brynden Tully's hand (later she might find it funny, how he had shoved that boy off like he too was a toothless kitten) and allowed him to help her to her feet with a softly spoken 'thank you', all that she had to present her audience was the cool face of a princess that could be anything, feel anything… or nothing at all. The whirlwind was still there beneath her flesh, but it swirled deeper and deeper inside her by the moment, out of sight and within control.

She would not cringe for them!

_Lions don't cry and cower. We look our enemies in the eye and_smile_!_

And though Myrcella knew she was a girl and not a lion at all, smile razors was exactly what she did when she looked at that little Lord whose name she did not even care to remember, and who looked far less steady on his feet now than a moment ago. And the expression on her face when she met his eyes must have been something indeed, because Myrcella say the boy gulp and fidget under her unblinking gaze. It must have made him forget that he was supposed to apologize then, because it took him a beat to remember it.

"I do beg your pardon, princess. I… I was not… I am a rather poor dancer, it seems, forgive me."

Myrcella felt her insides freeze over and finally, finally, she had a mastery of herself again. Lies were always the best catalyst to her reason and her sanity, she knew. She _despised_ being lied to her face – it made her mind jerk into work whether she wanted to or not and it was the same as ever now. In a corner of her mind where the child she had once been still breathed, she almost felt sorry for that boy looking at her now, a little lord she probably would never meet again. What that boy didn't know was that she was a much better liar than he ever hoped to be, and that if she had a little more freedom, she would have crushed him like a bug beneath her boot and felt no remorse at all doing so.

_Stupid boy._

_No, I don't feel sorry for you at all. Men have died for less._

It was with an unfeeling face and unflinching eyes that she lied when she next spoke, making it almost believable, but too cold to truly be so, too sharp and deliberate.

"Oh, it makes no matter my Lord." And as the smile on her lips stretched just a fraction wider, she could swear that if feelings could make sounds, hers would sound like nails scratching on a board. "I have spent such a long time in Dorne that I have quite forgotten the steps of the more northern dances myself."

The idea had her by the throat even as the words left her mouth and Myrcella could do nothing to resist it. She was all that a princess should be for them, she had played her part flawlessly to her own detriment. And yet they were not satisfied. Fine! If there was no means for her to hurt them properly, she could still go behind their back and fuck them in their arses.

_If they want my blood, then my blood is what I'll give them. On my terms._

It took on glance, just one look in Elia's direction, and the understanding that Myrcella saw dawning on her friends face was immediate, absolute. When the octanes were ringing high, Elia's senses became sharper than a dagger's blade.

"Indeed, my Lord, the dances of my country are quite different." Elia spoke then, loud and clear and drawing attention of the surrounding faces to herself as she joined Myrcella in the eye of the storm, having a similar smile on her face as well, and a fire in her dark eyes. When they looked at each other, their expressions mirrored so closely that they might have been sisters. "And they are lovely as well. So lovely that it is a shame we have not danced to a dornish song yet."

It was the perfect distraction and Myrcella knew that as soon as Elia finished the words, there would be many of those that would beg her to show them these famous dances. They did, and the collective enthusiasm of that hall of people tasted a little of the hysterical. It was not Elia's dance they wanted but a reprieve from the stifling tension that had been caused by a straying foot. They wanted to glaze over the repercussions now that the act had been done, now that they had had their entertainment.

Myrcella despised them for it – _cowards_, she thought, _not wanting to face my fury, not wanting to know what happens after the blow is dealt. Cowards and cravens all of them…_ - and yet she hid the feeling well beneath the right smiles at the right time.

It took moments for the snakes to take the floor and everyone else was delegated to the fringes. Ellaria too came to dance along her daughter and so did some other few dornishwomen that were traveling with their husbands… and when Myrcella did not move away – on the contrary she placed herself right in the middle of the fray - eyes lingered on her too, but the princess did not have eyes for any one of them.

It was on the King that she chose to look at when the first high note of the flute came calling and the first steps of the Dance of Blades were taken. And as she spun and turned and not once smiled, her eyes always found his and never wavered.

It was not for his benefit that she was doing this though the king may take it any way he liked. This is a show that was for everyone else. Let them remember who she was and why she was among them. Let them remember to whom she'd been sold and what she was bound to become. That a lion could never be toothless, no matter how pretty to smile of sweet the look... and that the next time they reached a hand at her she would bite it off.

ooo

The first note hit high and the dornishwomen started their dance all at the same time, as if they had done this a thousand times among themselves. Robb was not surprised to see her among them: she looked like a dark flower among so many bright silks of all the imaginable shades of red and gold and orange and bronze. And yet she moved with the same assurance they did… and her eyes didn't leave his for a moment.

She was angry, she must be – her face did not show it but her green eyes blazed. She watched him unflinchingly as she moved about following the foreign rhythm of smoky flutes, rolling percussion and tiny bells dusting the rhythm - a music that felt smoky and alluring as it felt like a warning - moving to a dance of fluttering arms, rolling shoulders and flexible waists that made the women look like birds about to take flight… or snakes. And the whole time, her green eyes did not look away from him, not even when a blade flew up in the air and she – as they all did – caught it with nimble fingers and started slicing the air with it as if she was cutting down enemies. She moved with ease and the way she held that long dagger was practiced – not reminiscent of a dance at all, but of someone used to slice flesh and bone. The unease of every single man and woman in that hall at that blatant threat of violence was palpable and yet the princess seemed miles away from them as she danced… and keeping her eyes steady with his own, Robb felt the same.

The fine tune of the dance lingered and called, and the dancers turned and met and their blades did too, the singing bite of steel meeting steel adding to the rhythm of the music. The princess turned and turned with that dagger in her hand slicing air, dark skirts fluttering about her, and Robb wondered if she'd rather be yielding it on someone alive. Though he could not think of that for too long – the question seemed inconsequential.

Was this a dance for seduction he wondered, as he watched her bend at the waist, arms stretched in front creating waves in the air, shoulder rolling with the motion? It was not so hard to believe. And the intent in her eyes, that blazing feeling that he could sense just beneath the surface, _that_ was not something he could readily escape. She was a girl, and yet as she danced and looked at him as if she was about to jump over those steps and take a bite off him, Robb could not help but want to flinch in his seat. That unwavering gaze, bright as wildfire, her unsmiling mouth… she was full of intent and though he did not know _what_ it was, it was not hard to imagine that she was being fueled by feelings that a moment ago she had concealed.

She must know what she was doing, know it better than the rest of the dornish for whom this kind of dance was perhaps normal. She must have known how much it would provoke, and yet she must not have cared. This was done to make a point, Robb knew. But knowing that did to mean immediate escape from her eyes, nor did it mean immunity to it.

He was aware that he was not the only one who could see it in her: the way she looked at him without fear, without modesty, bold and deliberate enough to be both a challenge and an invitation. Robb knew that, where he was almost fascinated by it, others would be threatened. He knew that, and he did not care in the least.

The music continued, picking up as the women spun with their arms out and their daggers above their heads, skirts fluttering out in a way that seemed they would go on forever, until the last boom of the drums came and they fell to the floor all at the same time, as if their strings were cut, bending forward as if bowing, their blades digging on the stone in front of them. Robb could imagine that if they had been dancing on sand, those sharp daggers would be hilt deep into it by the end.

A sharp kill on the final step.

They held their place for a moment longer, and then lifted up. The princess straightened her spine and kept looking at him even as the applause that had been a beat too late to come (courtesy perhaps of how much the dance had shocked the more reserved sensibilities of some, and how much it had entranced others) and she and the other dancers rose from knees on the floor. The dornishwomen were all smiling among themselves and enjoying the attention, but she did not. She was breathing hard with exertion and looking at him still, even as she took the blade to her hand and started walking towards him.

Perhaps her walking to him with a sharp blade in her hand equated to unease for some, but he did not feel even the barest brush of dread. There was not death in her eyes, but rather that fevered intensity that she had captured him with earlier, an expression that he had never seen in her before.

The men around him froze when she climbed those two steps of the high table and came as close to him as the table between them would allow. He did not blink as he watched her because he knew she would not. She had held his eyes without blinking the entire time.

_Stubborn girl…_

"Your grace." She said simply, just the barest touch of breathlessness in her tone, and yet it was enough... And when she offered the dagger to him with both her hands, he looked at it and did not miss the tension vibrating from the men around him, nor did he miss the smear of red on that blade, one that had not been there as she danced.

The meaning of it was lost on him, but her intention was clear.

Robb got up from his seat and reached out to take the dagger from her. (he could almost feel Karstark bristling close to him. He didn't need to see it to know that all their hands had gone to their sides looking for their swords. It would have been funny that a girl of sixteen years that was almost half his size could fray the nerves of fearless men of war so easily)

"Forgive me princess, but I am not familiar with dornish customs." He said as he pressed a thumb at the smear of blood on the cold steel and felt it smear easily. It was fresh. "What am I supposed to do with it?"

The small twitch of her lips told him of her amusement, but the expression was barely there and as fleeting as lightning: gone as soon as he noticed it.

"To keep it, your grace. That is all."

The princess inclined her head to him and without a word more, stepped down from the dais and for the very first time since this evening had started, she went to find refuge among the Snakes, who were all quick to snatch her away. And it was only when he saw Obara Sand draw her hand forward and wrap it in a white cloth that he knew it for certain: that was her blood on that blade.

The meaning of it was not lost on him anymore.

ooo

"No one should go that close to our King with a dagger in their hands."

But the Blackfish's snort was louder than Karstark's grumble. "She's little more than a child and yet you piss yourself."

Some chuckled, others outright laughed. There were more murmurs up and down their company, of how the Lannister princess was nothing like a child at all - louder and freer murmurs now that the princess had deigned to show to all with eyes how thoroughly bloody fuckable she could look if she had a mind to it.

"She's a Lannister." Eddard Karstark mumbled. _She's the Kingslayer's bastard_ he would have probably liked to say as well, but he did not. The Greatjon laughed soundly.

"She's a _girl_… and a beauty at that." Because the Greatjon was always the one that would voice loud and clear all that the others were weary of saying. He spoke now with a laugh in his tone, and a tease in his eyes when they met Robb's and his huge hand patted Robb heavily on the back. "Even with that gash on her face, she's far prettier a sight than most."

_Eye, she is. And Lannister or not, you'd have to be dead not to want a taste between her legs_... Robb found himself thinking _…and I am quite alive._

He could pretend to be surprised at the turn of his thoughts, and perhaps a part of him was, a very small part. But the rest of him knew that he had been thinking something along those lines since the first moment she'd met his eyes, burning and fierce, and started that dance of hers of waves and daggered steps. Being seduced was something that felt so far back in the past that Robb had almost forgotten what it felt like. But that was what she'd done, wasn't it? Ever since that dance, Robb couldn't stop thinking about it, and it had astounded him, really, just how easily he had been led into it. Were men really such simple fools then? Was he the same? He had been so weary of her that the thought of being between her thighs had always been miles from his head. But not now though… and he enjoyed and resented it in the same measure. But he could burn in all seven hells before he got played by the cock from a girl! A _Lannister_! He was not a green boy anymore, damn her!

And yet he could not stop thinking about her blood on that blade either, and how he was supposed to 'keep it, that is all'.

Robb sighed. He really was being a fool, wasn't he? Tying himself in knots just because a girl with golden hair had danced for him once. So what? What was the point anyway. It was just a dance, she was just a girl, albeit a shrewd one, and in the end, she could have no more power over him than he allowed.

Because that was what worried him so, was it not? Being deceived. Being played. Being betrayed...

Before to got up to ask Sansa for a dance, he speared a single thought on a question that had been banging around his skull for a while now: would he really be so distrustful of himself and of that girl with golden hair, if she were not the daughter of a family he despised? If she were not a Lannister.

But that was a useless question, because she _was_ a Lannister and that would never change.

ooo

It had started with congratulations for the beautiful dance from before, which Myrcella had accepted as gracefully as her station commanded her to, while in her head reminding the lord who had introduced himself as Garret Paege of House Paege of Riverrun, that it had not been her dance at all, and that should he have come near her while she had been in those steps he could have lost a chunk of himself... preferably those thin lips and that unpleasant smile.

"Quite a beautiful dance, princess: so exotic. I was fascinated. As were many others, I am sure." the young man continued and those around him agreed, thought the ladies did not seem to appreciate it much. Did they think she did not notice those glances they exchanged or was it done deliberately openly so that she would notice?

Myrcella inclined her head. "I will be sure to tell the other ladies that danced with me that you said so, my lord."

_In short, go bother someone else! _

But of course not.

"Ah yes, the other ladies." And he leaned in a bit, seemingly conspiratorial if one wanted to judge by the smile on his face, as if he was confiding a secret to a friend. Myrcella barely kept herself form scowling and stepping backwards from his presence.

Gods but her patience was wearing thin!

"The Sand Snakes, was it? I am told they are all Prince Oberyn's bastard daughters and that he has four more hidden in Dorne. Is that true, princess?"

Perhaps he meant nothing by it. Perhaps he just wanted to be funny.

Perhaps he was a snooty bastard who thought he was so very smart and needed a good beating. Perhaps he would not smile so smugly, look at her with such amusement, if he knew what it was to taste Obara's spear, Tyene's poisons, Nymeria's arrows or Elia's fist. Perhaps she should to him a favor and take him to Prince Oberyn...

The thought made her smile.

"They are the Prince's daughters it is true. All of Dorne knows them as the Sand Snakes because of how deadly they can be." Myrcella knew that her eyes sparkled and her smile looked sharp enough to cut, right then. A small pause there, just to let it sink in. "Obara, Tyene and Nymeria are the eldest. Sarella comes after them but she is not here. And Elia is the eldest daughter of Ellaria Sand, the Prince's paramour. The others are too young to travel a land torn by war, I'm afraid, even if in the middle of their father's army."

_The army he brought to liberate your lands, my lord, and fight your war. _

Myrcella smile the whole time, as if she was having the most pleasant conversation of all, as if she was utterly unaware of his meanings. Her meaning however did sink into the head of that Lord, or rather, he remembered himself. She could not be sure.

"Though Obella, Dorea and Loreza are fearless creatures and would have braved any army. But Prince Oberyn loves his daughters dearly and wisely chose to keep them safe, until they are grown enough to keep themselves safe."

One of the ladies to her left giggled. She could not be so much older than Myrcella herself.

"Indeed. And how queer that they call us 'northerners'."

At that Myrcella too could smile, and it was not fake at all.

"Everyone born north of the Red Mountains is a northerner to the Dornish." Myrcella said softly, perhaps a little more so than she should have, since she should never trust any real emotions to these people... and in immediately interested looks she got in return were proof of that.

"You are quite close to them, are you not princess?" one of the ladies asked, a small smile curling the end of her thin lips.

"I am. They have been my companions for a long time since and Princess Arianne of Dorne, who was my keeper, loves all her cousins dearly and always wanted them about her."

The same Lady as before, spoke again and this time her contempt was more obvious. Someone needed to teach her how to humiliate without being so obvious.

"It must be a relief to live in such a tolerant country."

Myrcella could have laughed. Dorne, a tolerant country. That was a joke she must remember to tell Elia tomorrow. Myrcella could see just the way she would snort at that, through the nose and then roll her eyes.

"I'm sure it must be." Myrcella said, knowing she should smile a little more wanly, but not really caring. Let them take it as they like.

"You are a lovely dancer as well, Princess." The lady said, turning to her fully now. What was her name? Why could she not remember it? Perhaps Myrcella had chosen not to remember because she did not want to to have a name in her mind to connect to that pale face, so that later, if the fancy struck her, she would not have easy means to make his girl cry a bit.

There were ways, she had found, to keep herself in check. This was one of them, even for those like herself, who could never forget anything.

"Thank you, my lady." Myrcella said instead.

"Such a shame that Eamon is not a better dancer. Imagine his disappointment at not having the honor of dancing with you again."

_Yes, imagine. _

"I am trying." But this time Myrcella was just a short breath from chuckling herself. A disappointment indeed.

"Oh, I meant no offence, princess." The lady said then, and Myrcella fond herself raising her eyebrows to her, gracing the company with a true expression of surprise.

"You could never give any, my lady." Myrcella replied calmly, with an incline of her head.

"Princess Myrcella, good evening."

Myrcella turned to her left to see sir Brynden coming to her with two cups in his hand, one of which was clearly meant for her. She took it with thanks to the man. He could not have known she did not like to drink wine, no matter how sweet. But when she took a small sip, she found that it was not wine at all, but iced honeymilk, sweet and fresh that cooled her tongue. The surprise showed in her eyes in the sipped with which they seeked sir Brynden's face. The old knight smiled at her.

"Thank you, sir." Myrcella said softly, perhaps more so than she should have. Now everyone would know when she said thank you and she meant it, and when not.

"You're welcome, princess."

"How do you find the feast, your grace." He asked, and this time, instead of anything else she had seen in the faces of men and women most of the night, she saw real enquiry and even a touch of amusement – as if Brynden Tully already knew her answer

"Very entertaining, sir Brynden." Was all Myrcella said. And it had been. "Though after so much excitement, I'm afraid it has left me a little weary."

There was a snort from her left and Myrcella turned to see her Garret Page exchanging a look with his friends that seemed to speak louder than words and they all were wearing the same smirks on her face... smirks that lessened under Brynden Tully steel eye.

"Get on." The knight said looking at the boys hard enough that his eyes would have driven holes in their skulls. Myrcella felt like giving those boys a very wide smile indeed at that, but that would have been too openly pleased. When the boys did not move, the Blackfish's hard stare turned into a scowl. "_Now_, boy. The princess is bored of your company and so am I."

Myrcella took the opportunity to sip form her cup, so that she did not have to say anything back... and openly have to lie. The boys scrambled away and the ladies bowed and left as well, leaving her in the company of sir Brynden who offered her his arm and escorted her out of the thick of it and into the outer halls where the air was cooler and fresher.

"I have no grounds upon which to speak you familiarly, but I would, if you allow me."

Myrcella was a bit surprised by the request, but then she remembered the way everyone would speak of this man, the kind of man they said he was, and how he had pushed that little lord off her before, when she had been tripped.

"I would do well, I think, to listen well to whatever you have to say, sir Brynden. Please, speak freely."

"I would council you to ignore them. They are all too young to know better and too pleased with themselves to realize that they're actually being bloody stupid."

Myrcella felt her mask slip at and break apart when faced with such blunt honesty. She looked upon the knight's face searching it. Was this a trap or was he being truthful? And if so, why? But when she did look at him she saw nothing but honesty in his face and that was when Myrcella decided that she could at least, give him some of her own honesty in return.

"I have lived for years in a place where they have cursed my family's name for the last twenty years, sir. A few overeager boys and their japes don't exactly shock me."

The Blackfish chuckled low at that, as if surprised and also amused by her – or was it her nerve? Myrcella didn't know. And then after a moment, he spoke again.

"I am sorry... for before. Aemon Frey is a stupid, cruel boy and I should have never allowed him near you."

And this time Myrcella did startle. So much that she took back her hand form his arm and looked at the knight as if he was something he had never seen before. She bit back the first words that came to her, the sharpest ones... and always the most unwise.

After another breath, she did speak.

"I appreciate the sentiment, sir, but you are not my keeper." Myrcella said and her voice didn't trembled from neither hurt nor anger. She sounded surer than she felt she would, and harder than she ever had, for this was one thing that she would always know.

_I have _no_ keeper, nor do I want one. _

The Blackfish have her a long look, as if he was trying to break her open and read her from within. And though his blue eyes were sharp and sure as swords - and familiar because the King and his mother and sister had those eyes - they were not unkind.

"I am not, you're right." And a smile that was not cheery as much as if was fierce, curved his lips. "Seems to me you hardly need one."

Myrcella felt her own smile before she had a mind to give it. "Thank you for that." Because at least he could be kind enough to say it, even if he might not mean it.

"No need to thank him if it's the truth. And it seems to be the general understanding of most lords and ladies in that hall as well."

Myrcella felt the rigidity set in her shoulders when she heard that voice, (thought she understood from that very moment that his tone was light and almost teasing really), coming from much closer than she had expected. She had taught herself to tell his voice apart from others, tried to be able to do it since the very first time she heard it, so that whenever she heard him speak near her she would know it was him and he might never catch her off guard. And yet he continually did, and Myrcella found herself wondering if perhaps it amused him, sneaking up to her like this.

_Wolves like to hunt_, a mocking voice whispered in her head. But she didn't need to hear her mother whisper to know how to answer that. She didn't need anything but her own self and what she knew.

_I am not his prey. He bought me to be his queen. _

By the time Myrcella turned to greet him, she had a smile for him. "Your grace."

"Princess. Sir Brynden."

"My king."

But aside from a flicker of his eyes towards the old knight and an incline of his head, the King in the North was entirely too focused on Myrcella and she felt that focus now much more strongly than she ever had before. She had provoked him before. She had provoked the entire hall, all of them. They would probably be calling her names by the morrow… thought it would be fun to listen to the new stories they had to say. No doubt by first light there will be one according to which she'd fondled the king in front of the entire company of his guests.

The thought made her want to laugh.

"Am I interrupting?" the king asked coming closer.

"Of course not, your grace. Sir Brynden and I…" she caught the eye of the old knight and suddenly the whole thing was just too funny to ignore anymore. She had always prided herself with being able to see the light side of any situation and there was much to laugh about here. Paege's face when Brynden Tully had told him to fuck off was definitely one of them. "We were discussing the social utility of being courteous and maintaining an awareness of other people's sensitivities."

The King smiled and nodded with an _'Ah'_ that immediately gave way to a chuckle. "So you were discussing Aemon Frey?"

Myrcella's eyebrows dived upwards before she could stop them and she was sure that her lips switched for a smile.

"I can't imagine how you would make that connection, your grace." She said lightly, a breath away from a smile… which really came when the Blackfish snorted.

"Neither can I. The bloody ungrateful whelp wouldn't recognize _'courteous'_ if it slapped him in the face and not even squiring for the Dragonknight himself could change that."

Myrcella hid her smile behind her glass, but not for long. "I really don't think they have anything to be grateful about to _me_, sir Brynden." … and only too late did she realize that instead of saying 'he', meaning the poor witless Aemon Frey, she had said 'they'.

The night really had wearied her down. Much more so than she had noticed if she was slipping so badly.

Myrcella dared a look at the Blackfish and then the King… and her cup paused on the way to her mouth. They were looking at her much too strangely, staring really with an amount of disbelief that made her uncomfortable.

"Beggin your pardon, your grace, I must return to the feast." Sir Brynden said quite suddenly and Myrcella was left feeling even more out of pace. Had she really offended him that badly? But the knight didn't give her a chance to speak at all, he was out of sight before she could even open her mouth.

And the king was still looking at her that strange way, as if he could not quite make up his mind over what he was seeing.

"I hope I did not say something to offend him. He has been kind to me since I arrived here." Myrcella said, hoping to get at least some indication of where she had gone wrong.

The king shook his head, but said nothing. Myrcella finally lost her patience for silence.

"Forgive me your grace, but why are you looking at me that way?"

She saw the ghost of a smile pass through his features. It wasn't even real, but his expression softened with it.

"Looking at you how, princess?"

Was this a game to him now? Myrcella resisted the impulse to huff. Even if it was, she had had enough of playing for one night.

"As if you know something about me that I do not, your grace." She said with a voice that did not leave room for play of japing. She was serious and needed a serious answer. That should not give him that much of a surprise as it did: he was always far more serious than she after all.

And yet, the tempered look of disbelief did not fade from his eyes.

"You really don't know, do you?" he asked, as if he was asking himself. As if he could not quite believe it.

"There are a great many things that I don't know. Which one do you speak of?"

The King frowned, that small pucker between his brows bringing him back to the man that she could more easily recognize. There he was…

"There were certain terms that came with our marriage." He said then, speaking as frankly as he always did. The moment she heard those words however, Myrcella felt the cold seep into her spine, straightening it to the point of rigidity, setting her shoulders as if she was about to be dealt a blow. "Since the Trident was not north of the Neck it did not belong to the North, and therefore could not be part of its independent kingdom. Your grandfather and I were at odds a long time over that. I did not want to abandon men who'd fought for me, but keeping the Riverlands free would have bled them dry. So a bargain was proposed."

He paused, the barest hesitation in his voice, in his eyes. Myrcella wished she could tell him not to bother. She already knew the sort of bargain her grandfather had made – she had gotten the gist of it immediately, the same moment the King explained the conflict.

"A full royal pardon for the Riverlands, in exchange for making you a queen." The king said, and she was not a fool: she could sense that apology in his tone, the way he felt he was being callous by speaking of it. He should not have. He must have deduced by now that he was the very first to tell her of it.

Well, she had been wondering about this since the beginning had she not? Now she had her answer. She'd thought she was being exchanged for peace and union of two great bloodlines and perhaps that had been her grandfather's intent. But she had been _accepted_ for entirely different reasons.

Perhaps she should be more surprised than she felt, but she was not. Her grandfather was the kind of man to know how to take advantage of any tragedy. And she could not fault the King either. Of what could she possibly fault him? He was as stuck as she was. But what Myrcella did find was a new cause of anger for the way she had been treated all night.

She had paraded around like a fool, acting the gracious princess and always being polite and courteous and for what? For whom? For people who didn't even bother to see her for what she was, who could not even look past her face. She doubted they even know how. And now she learned that not only was she instrumental for peace, but she was also the peace of ass traded to secure them a future without having to fear their houses being razed to the ground and their children take as wards and their taxes raised, their crops seized…

The beast in her roared in outrage and spite. _Who are they to judge me? With what right do sheep judge a lion?_

Gods, she sounded just like her mother. How pathetic.

The child in her stomped her little feet, balling her hands in fists and pouting. _Why do they hate me then?_ _If I'm the price for their pardon, for their precious peace, why do they show me such reckless malice?_

"I did not know." Myrcella heard herself say, flatly, co very coolly. She sounded so foreign, as if another woman was speaking. A woman that was wiser than the child and stronger than the beast.

A woman who was, at the very least, a better liar than both.

"I suppose it does not matter, since it changes nothing for me." And this was when she remembered that she was talking to a King, and one that had the good sense to offer her a hand. "But I do thank you for telling me, your grace."

But she sounded as cold as she felt. Gods how she wished she were alone! She wanted nothing more than to go to her room and collapse on the bed, and sleep for days. Sleep the exhaustion away, the irritation at having to put on so many faces, the utter frustration at herself and her family and her situation.

"Would you walk with me, princess?"

_No. No!_

"Of course, your grace." She said softly, taking his arm and following his lead down the many corridors and into the night. She let herself be led and it was in times like these, in times when she was frustrated with her own self as well, that she wished she was a little more like her mother and cared nothing for the consequences of her actions.

The sight of gardens in front of her was a surprise. She had not known that Riverrun had inner gardens – nor could she have, Myrcella told herself, since she had been there only for a day. As far as she could see, they were lovely, in an esthetically pleasing, useless way. The moonlight washed them with silver gleam, but the moon was only halved, and the shadows of that garden stood far longer and darker than the places the silver gleam of the moon touched. All the flowers looked different degrees of grey and white under that light… and perhaps that was what Myrcella liked best about that garden.

"My sister told me that you were being treated ungallantly by some and rudely by others. I apologize for that."

Myrcella found herself being jarred out of her own musings by that. This was not the first time that the king had apologized to her, and again, it was of no fault of his own that he was apologizing.

Did he really feel so responsible for everyone under his reign?

"There was nothing to warrant an apology, your grace." Myrcella said slowly, looking ahead though, choosing not to stare up in his face in the off chance that her own expression might show him a little more than she would have liked to. "Not everyone has Lady Sansa sense of fairness, or her kindness… or her tolerance. Indeed, few are those that possess even a inch of her fine qualities."

Nobody is quite like Lady Sansa in many ways, but the king did not need to hear all about his sister… because his sister was not who they were speaking of.

They arrived at a bench and as the king stopped, Myrcella let go of his arm to sit. She expected him to sit next to her, but instead he sat down in the other stool, in front of her.

There would be no escaping his eyes now.

"You handled everything without a hitch though, I must say." And his smile was almost playful, as if the thought amused him, and he leaned his elbows on his knees, getting just a bit closer, their eyes falling to one level. "When you started dancing with that dagger in your hand, I thought I saw Aemon Frey pale quite a bit."

This time it was her turn to smile. She felt daring tonight.

"If you were looking at Aemon Frey while I was dancing, then I must have been doing a very poor job of it, your grace."

The king laughed – for the very first time since he had been in her company and she in his, he laughed freely, and sincerely.

"You were doing a marvelous job of it. And quite an impressive one as well. The whole of the Riverlands will be talking about it for months."

Myrcella wanted to laugh. Life must be dull indeed in the Riverlands if her dancing was all that was worth a rumor… and Myrcella doubted that it was so.

But instead of saying that, she shrugged. "I'd rather they speak of my scandalous dance than my falling on my face."

The King's eyes were heavy on her face as she spoke, and his levity fell away a little as the silence stretched. "I think we both know you didn't fall, princess." He said carefully, never once blinking.

Myrcella sighed. "As we both know that it does not matter."

A side of his mouth, where most of his smiles seemed to begin, twitched a little upwards, but there was no cheerfulness in it.

"I promised you your safety, and yet, where I am able to guarantee the safety of a realm, I cannot seem to do it for just one princess. It does not seem to speak well of me, that."

Myrcella blinked against the admission. He was one for frankness, this King, and she had told herself to remember that well because he never seemed to be able to act differently. And yet, for all her observations and her so careful study of his person, he still managed to surprise her. Every time she exchanged words with him, the amount of things he seemed to say that were able to shock her only grew.

Who was this man?

"I am quite safe, your grace, and I _feel_ safe as well." And what did it matter if it was not yet true? It didn't, not now. Now, in this darkness and alone with him, she could pretend better than in the harsh daylight. But did she have to? Could she not speak some truth as well? Truths of the likes of those that she usually hid from him, in particular? Myrcella paused hesitated, and then told her doubts to fuck off. Nothing good would ever come if she did not risk it. And the time had come to take her chances with this King. "I will doubtlessly have many difficulties adapting to the life that awaits me, but the court and its liars will never be one of them. I was raised in the Red Keep and Sunspear. I've been trained for this my whole life, even before I knew it was so. Believe me when I say, I know my way around a King's courtiers."

He looked at her with contemplation and Myrcella was sure that she saw a flicker of surprise in his eyes as well, when she spoke to him so openly about things that she tried to make everyone avoid thinking of: that she was a creation of the world they had fought so hard to free themselves from: a world of liars and deceivers and little men playing their little games and pretty women with sharp smiles who spun their tales and ensnared their flies.

"What's your secret then, princess? To surviving as well as you have to all the liars and the treasons?"

Myrcella felt her heart thump in her chest. 'Surviving well' he said… Her hand had gone to her cheek before she even realized what she was doing and once she did realize it, she put if down swiftly, a little too swiftly perhaps. He must have noticed that, no doubt.

She should not allow herself to be quite so open with him, Myrcella knew that. She had to drop her guard to speak to him as honestly as his sharp eyes always demanded of her and once she did, she ended up giving away little bits of herself that she never meant to.

"I don't think there is a secret." she whispered, looking at her hands. But it was not to herself that she was speaking to, so she made herself look up into his eyes. Even in this darkness, his eyes shone pale and clear. He looked like he was made of white marble and the shadows that the planes of his face cast upon him sharpened all his features. "I think you get lied to one time too many before you really start believing that everyone is a liar unless proven otherwise."

He looked at her unflinchingly, without blinking and for the very first time, Myrcella did not feel observed, but rather _seen_.

"So what is the answer? Do you trust no one?"

Myrcella felt a bitter smile begin on her lips, but she surprised it before it cold properly blood its ugly colors.

"The wiser answer to that would be 'no'." she said, trying to sound lighter, more cheery. She did not want to be such a droll conversationalist, but the Kings seemed to have a preference for heavy topics. "But alas, I do trust _some_ people. Life would be so very lonely otherwise."

And it already is such a lonely, brutal and cruel affair. Why make it harder?

"Besides, allow me to point out, your grace, that I actually did enjoy my time at the feast tonight." Myrcella said, when it became clear that he would not break the silence, and his eyes so carefully studying her face were making her uncomfortable, especially so because they were under the cover of the night. She could not read his expression as cleanly as she would have liked, and every flicker on his features seemed like a secret he was yet stealing from her.

In a moment such as this, when tension felt high, but not the kind that made one afraid, Myrcella would rather speak than be silent. Silence was always more dangerous when the eyes looking at you were trying to see you truly.

"I'm glad you did." He said simply.

It wasn't enough.

"And some of the riverlords and especially the ladies were quite entertaining as well. Once or twice I must have been very close to laughing at quite the inappropriate moment."

His smile was knowing. "I did notice that, once or twice."

"Not too kind of me, I'm afraid." She admitted.

"And you didn't think to deflate any egos then? I'm sure you can, if you try."

"Oh that would have been truly foolish. Life has a way of puncturing self-inflated senses of worth in cruel ways. It hardly needs my help." Myrcella thought back at how easily she could spot a lie or a game sometimes, and how easily she too could be manipulated and bent against her will and played. _To each their own. Valar Morgulis_. "Besides, I have found that all of us are not half as difficult as we think we are, and not nearly as mysterious."

"Is that true for you as well, princess?"

Myrcella didn't need to see the glint in his eyes to know that he was teasing: he'd been smiling at her. She remembered what Arianne had said to her once, and the memory made her smile despite herself.

"It is true about myself most of all, I suppose." Myrcella admitted with what she hoped was a placid expression on her face. People like her survived by letting people like that boy who had stumbled her to the ground believe that she was far much more complicated than she seemed; or by turns, far more simple. Lies were the way for a princess: nobody was supposed to know what lay even a small inch beneath your flesh: whenever enemies saw weakness, all they thought of was digging up for more. "After all, I am a woman, a princess and a Lannister; three very good reasons to be seen as the most deceitful creature on the earth."

She had meant it as a jape, a little twist on her own expense to show him that she did not take herself half as seriously as people seemed to think… but the King did not smile - he even lost what lightness that had been there before. There was a look in his eyes that told her he never would, not at such a thing.

Had she miss-stepped then? Was that frail truce between them broken?

"You should not let anyone believe that if it is not the truth." He said finally, with such gravity that Myrcella knew immediately he was not speaking to her lightly at all. That he was not even speaking to her as King, but as one person to another… and in that respect this may very well be the first conversation she was having with him. Which was probably why Myrcella felt like she had many years ago when she'd first stepped into the shores of the rocky sea of Dorne, feeling the water so shallow the first two steps and then on the third she had found depths beyond her own height, and sunk down in the sea unexpectedly, swallowing a good mouthful of salt water and even inhaling some for good measure.

Any moment now, she would sink, just like she had then.

She wanted to ask him how he supposed she was to change their minds… but instead she felt something else was needed. Something that was less of a challenge, and more of an acceptance.

Myrcella felt herself gulp down her doubts.

"I will try." She said, but even as the words left her mouth, they felt wrong. They were not enough – she did not know his standards yet, but it didn't matter: it was not enough for her own. "I will try my very hardest to make them see me as I am."

_As I want to be_, she thought, but did not say it out loud. There was no need for the King of Winter to know everything.

The king offered her a calm look, a sort of serenity that lacked the smug satisfaction she had hoped he could _not_ get, when she said those words. And as she looked back at him, Myrcella felt relief.

"Tonight was quite the start in that direction. You seem determined to make a good impression upon everyone."

He made it sound so very pathetic… and perhaps it even was. But Myrcella was not daunted by that. Appearances were just that: they were the inch-thick matter that covered the second layer, which covered another, and then another still. Most people lived and died without knowing the truth of things or the people around them. Most people built themselves up because it was easier.

"If you don't give people something of yourself to see and speak and think of, they will fill the void themselves." She said carefully. "And I already know what they'd rather fill it with… Most people look at me and see my mother." _You did as well, didn't you? Perhaps you still do._ But no, she was not quite crazy enough to tell him that. "Do you remember my mother at the feast of Winterfell, your grace?"

_Do you remember how rigidly she sat, how tightly she smiled and how bitter she was? Do you remember?_

From the look that passed in his face, the understanding in his eyes that was reflected in his little smile, Myrcella gathered that he did remember. And he understood that she had done all that she had done tonight to make people see that she was only Cercei Lannister's daughter, and not Cercei herself.

"It's bad enough that they'll gave to have a Lannister for a queen, but to have the same Lannister queen twice would be called cruel… and I'd rather not be known for cruelty."

She spoke so softly, she might as well be speaking to herself, but she knew that he heard her. She knew it, and felt that familiar bite of fear in her breast when she realized that she'd just given away too much, far too much. Everything seemed to bee to much with this King, and Myrcella could not control that.

But she could dominate it. She refused to be a slave to her own insecurities. He wanted to know of her, and she would give him that. Whether he believe her or not, that was an issue that was out of her hands. In any other case, she would not even have tried - Myrcella had never cared much for being judged, and people had a tendency to do just that the moment they heard the word Lannister. (…and his silence made her feel very much so, even though his eyes did not hint at it) But this was not any other case: she was going to marry this man. Sooner or later he would have to see her for who she was.

"I would ask you something, princess, and I would also ask that you speak truth to me in answer. If you cannot, then don't answer at all."

Myrcella look at up at him, but said nothing. If she would have the option of silence, then what harm was there in listening to his questions?

_Plenty of it. Silence is as good as an admission, a denial, a lie. Silence is out of your hands and left for him to decide._

"Did your family tell you nothing of me or where you were going when they send you off to the enemy?"

Of course… _of course_ he would ask the one thing she had not expected him to. Though why not? Everyone was curious about her family. They were always asking and asking. And he asked for himself. It was better than most, at least.

Was He sounded both disbelieving and not so surprised at the same time and Myrcella suspected it was because he felt so weathered by Lannisters that nothing they could possibly do could surprise him anymore.

She wondered what he would have thought if she confessed to the same.

"I was not told anything but what whispers suggested and court rumors are often fables, especially when they are about an enemy."

And now he frowned at her. At least that was a familiar expression, though she had never seen his lips pulled into a smile as he frowned. It made for a dark expression, one Myrcella did not like.

"I suppose so…" The King said, as if speaking to himself. And then his eyes snapped back to hers… "Is that why you seemed to be so afraid of me, in the beginning? You thought I was some sorcerer that turned into a wolf at night, just like they say?"

Myrcella was caught a little off guard by his bluntness, but she knew better than to stagger under it now. Whether he spoke to her as the Winter King or Robb Stark, he always spoke directly and expected the same kinds of answers from her. And apparently, the more at ease he felt, the more his frankness increased.

"They say that about you, it's true." And Myrcella allowed herself to smile as she looked at him. "They also say that your wolf is a demon with a coat of steel fur and that he has eyes of fire." She gave him an amused look and saw that he was rolling his eyes. Her smile widened at the sight of it. He looked younger when he did that.

But he had asked for the truth and she had decided she would give it. Whether he believed it or not.

"There were plenty of people I could have asked who would have told me something true about you – your sister among them. I simply chose not to ask."

The question was in his eyes. _'Why is that'_ the Winter King asked her with a small tilt of his head and a curious curve of his lips. And in that moment he was Robb Stark and Myrcella found that she could tell him exactly why that was… and regret it later, of course. But what mattered was she felt she _could_ speak to him now. Robb Stark had a way of being expressive which was astounding, considering how unreadable his face got whenever he needed it to, as if he was carved from cold stone.

"I didn't want him to know that I was asking. My grandfather, I mean." And this time Myrcella looked away from him as she spoke, choosing to stare away at the bushes by the King's head instead, unable to speak of things that felt so private and still look a stranger in the eye. "It's one of the games he likes to play: he tells you his will and nothing else, leaving you to scurry about and find out for yourself, if you can. He likes to pit us against each other – his family, I mean – and see who comes out on top and how. I think he decides our worth this way." Myrcella took a deep steading breath and released it slowly. She still hadn't looked him in the eye, but she had not looked down to her hands either. And she _would not_. She was not ashamed of anything. "So you see, had I asked questions, I would have been playing his game… he would have known about it, and from my questions he would have been able to deduce my thoughts and intentions."

Myrcella spoke flatly, tonelessly. She always found herself speaking that way whenever she was trying to hide her emotions on any matter. Perhaps, Myrcella thought absently, that more than anything gave away her emotions…

"I didn't want him to know my intentions. Why should I give him the pleasure of getting what he wanted so easily? So I didn't." and that was worth a smile. "There was no point anyway – I wouldn't learn anything from the Red Keep's overgrown butterflies that I would not learn myself a few weeks later."

Myrcella shrugged away her stubbornness, knowing it was not so easily explained away, but not wanting the King to understand that her stubbornness and that particular vindictive streak she had, had gotten the better of her and she had wanted to take her victories wherever she found them.

And in a sense, she had gotten them. The thought of it made her twist her lips in a small smile that was not entirely kind… nor should it be.

"Once he realized I was not going to go fluttering about, worrying over my upcoming nuptials to the realm's worst enemy, he had me placed under armed guard. Five knights to guard a little girl. It was quite hilarious for a while." She chuckled at the memory even now, but there was the sting of tears that only she knew how to recognize in herself. It started with a tightening of her throat, but never went farther than that. Myrcella never allowed herself certain freedoms and tears were one of them. She could count on the fingers of one hand the times she had cried in the last five years.

"He thought I planned an escape." Myrcella smiled at the memory, perhaps more sharply than she should have, more darkly than she could afford with Robb Stark there, but the pleasure was undeniable. "I had a good laugh about that in private. I doubt he thought much of it, but small victories are worth it."

"And were you? Planning an escape?" the king asked… and this time she could not held but look at him. He was looking at her with very thoughtful eyes, but there was something in his question that hinted at his amusement… as well as the utter seriousness with which he asked it.

Myrcella thought about it for a moment, thought about how to answer him. This time she did look to her hands, clasped as they were in her lap. "I thought of it. For quite a while actually, I thought of running to the Free Cities, or Dorne." Her smile was bitter, as had been her thoughts. "I know it was selfish and thoughtless, I knew it even then as I entertained the possibility, but it didn't stop me."

"We're all entitled to a bit of selfishness every not and then I suppose. Though I'm glad you didn't rung away." The King said and when she looked up to meet his eyes, they were kind and his face open. She gave him a small smile, one of those that didn't even look real enough, that was just a softening of her face… and he mirrored the expression just as carefully.

They really were just puppets dancing to strings, weren't they? Just like her uncle had told her not so long ago. He a King and she a Princess, and still neither of them was free. There seemed to be no freedom in this world. Not in Westerost at least, and not from those whose main duty was to honor their ancient, noble and powerful houses.

Myrcella couldn't help it: she leaned forward a bit, setting her elbows on her knees as he'd done, coming perhaps two palm's-width away from his face. "It's funny though, isn't it: how women can be traded like livestock and yet the fate of entire kingdoms can still rest on the whims of a girl."

His eyebrows jumped up a fraction. "You think the war would have gone on if you'd decided you liked the free cities better than the thought of being queen?"

Myrcella smiled. The thought of being queen, was it? But of course he would think that. What did he know of her after all?

"No, I don't think that." And she mean it. "I think my grandfather would have found a way to delay my coming, and in the meantime he would have scorched town after town to find me, leaving only bones behind, until I either came back on my own or anyone who could remotely recognize me brought me back in chains."

Myrcella knew that her tone was dry enough to scrap stones, but he must know that those were facts, so she spoke them as such. The sun shone by day, the moon by night, Tywin Lannister didn't readily give up his possessions. All facts of the same proportion.

The King wisely chose not to have anything to add to her assessment. But he looked at her as if he had just now seen her for the first time, or rather, as if he could not quite believe what he was staring at.

_Surprised, your grace? _

Her mother used to tell her that men like pretty women and silent women, preferably both in the same body and that intelligence is considered a fault if it comes with teats… but looking back into Robb Stark's face now, Myrcella doubted it very much. She had a feeling that a man such as him would find a silent woman dull and a stupid woman frustrating.

But it was only once the silence stretched that she realized that this was the longest she had spoken uninterrupted to him and that put her in a state of almost uncomfortable self-consciousness.

That is, until he interrupted the silence.

"So, allow me to ask, Princess… what are your intentions?"

Myrcella heard the humor in his voice but she turned her head to look at him despite that, smiling as coyly as she dared without being outright open about it. She could be playful with him, couldn't she?

"I suppose you'll be the first one to find them out, your grace."

He chuckled. "I rather like the sound of that. Like it better, I think, than the thought of another man knowing more about my marriage than I do, before the marriage actually happens."

The laughter escaped her before she could put her lips together and stop it.

"That would be most unfortunate, your grace, especially considering the man in question." But the laughter fluttering around the words, making them dance with good humor that had no reason at all but for the situation itself, and how she longed to laugh it away simple because it really was as dire as one could imagine it to be. And so it was that, despite the weight that lingered in her from all that had happened throughout the evening and even that pleasant revelation of just how much exactly her womb was worth… she felt the way she sounded, in that moment: lighter and merry for some reason that seemed too far along to understand, but not enough not to enjoy. It took a moment for Myrcella to realize that she was plainly – stupidly perhaps – happy that Robb Stark could have a lighthearted thought over this union that they were supposed to enter in. Their _marriage_, he called it. That he could think of it that way was a relief of sorts. She had not been able to do the same quite a while.

And there must have been something in it that moment, perhaps the sheer ridiculousness of it (of ludicrousness, was that more right?) to make him chuckle too.

It was in that kind of silly mood that a strange pause came over them both, a sort of weightlessness that linked the sound of her laughter stopping and his chuckle as well. It sounded like silence but it was not so quiet, not so stilled. There seemed to be something between them, an understanding perhaps, or something that pretended to be like it. A sort of truce maybe, that in that moment vibrated with self-awareness.

"I think we should get back to the feast, princess." The King said without looking away from her, his smile still on his lips and not yet melted. He looked so much better when he smiles.

But then his suggestion sunk in, and her lightness was brought back to the solid ground. She really didn't want to go back into that hall. She was tired of smiling and pretending. Tired of having to play around words and the wits of people which wearing silk gloves for fear of damaging sensibilities.

"I would love to, your grace, but I'm afraid I'm rather tired. I had wanted to retire after this." Myrcella said and already she could feel herself slipping back inside the princess. Even her words sounded different. More contained, so much more self-aware.

He felt it too – his smile faltered for a moment, and then achieved a whole new tilt, amused and mischievous almost. Myrcella would not have been able to imagine that kind of expression on his face, had she not seen it herself. It gave her pause.

"And if I were to ask you for a dance before you retire, would you grant it, Princess? I promise you, I won't let you fall even if you do trip on my feet." He added with a good-naturedly.

Myrcella blinked twice before she caught herself.

"Oh… of course." She said then, a little too fast and when the smile on his lips stretched a little wider she called herself a fool. A bit of quick thinking and she was back into her own good graces.

"But we really don't have to go inside for a dance." Myrcella added quickly, standing up as he did. The confused expression on his face was worth her own reaction from before – which was wonderful. It would be terribly unfair if she were the one to be so garbled every time the situation turned for the normal. "We can have our dance here."

His eyebrows flew up, and he looked both amused and disbelieving. But not contrary. "Here? With no music?"

_With no one watching._ Myrcella felt that was a bit more important.

"I can imagine the music. And we can dance, just to dance." She said to him instead, feeling more uncertain than she ever had in a very long time. Feeling almost shy.

_We can dance just for us… _thought that was a thought she hardly dared to have.

"And you would like that?" he asked her. Immediately Myrcella nodded, though her heart was a little at her throat. She was doing it on purpose, she was. She wanted him to stop seeing her as the representation of the enemy and she wanted to see him as more than just the King she was marrying. Here and now, alone in the dark when they could have been anyone, that seemed like a pleasantly easy illusion to keep.

_Please say yes. _

"I would prefer it." _I would._

But then the King smiled at her… and it was the kind of smile she had seen sometimes on his face, but never directed at her. That was the kind of smile that was both amusement and happiness and openness to those feelings. It was unguarded and the king of expression that he only ever wore around his sisters, away from prying eyes. That was the king of smile that reminded her of a bright-eyed boy that she had met a long time ago and who had been the very first boy to ever turn her head when she was so very young and silly.

Seeing it on his face now made her gulp down a notch that had formed in her throat all of a sudden and that made Myrcella feel as if she could hardly swallow or breathe or anything remotely functional.

_Say yes. _

He didn't, of course.

He offered her his hand instead, and Myrcella took it with a deep inhale of relief that came out a smile. He moved away from the stools and into the cobblers that cracked beneath her boots. His hand felt warm and his fingers rough… but it was nice.

She turned to face him and put a hand on his shoulder, her arm falling to her side just as his palm found her waist.

"What would you like to dance to, princess."

His face was so shadowed as he looked down at her that he looked as if he was made of sharp angles and high planes and Myrcella could hardly see his expression at all. But his smile, so very still on his face that she could hardly see it, but there none the less, was visible. It changed him whenever he chose to look at someone fondly. You could not help but be drawn in. Even though the echo of who he was was very much present in her mind - just like that night when Sansa had slept in her bed, his eyes too shined in the darkness like a wolf – Myrcella did not mind it that much. This was real and it was them alone, which was the most she could have asked for.

"You'll have to sing." He said, but instead he pulled her with him to the steps of a slow rhythm that he alone could hear. Myrcella followed.

"You wouldn't like that." She spun, hand slipping from his shoulder down his arm and to his hand, where he caught it and turned her around, back into his arms again. "Elia says I sound like a cat who is about to be drowned. I've never heard one, but it sounds unpleasant… just about as much as my singing."

He chuckled and the sound was different form so close. She could feel him laughing.

It was nice.

They moved around the shadows, dancing to their own tunes in their heads, but though perhaps to different songs, their steps were perfectly in tune. He moved slowly and Myrcella could tell from the way he held her that it had been a while since he last danced with anyone. She didn't know the northern dances well and she followed him with carefulness of someone used to improvising, someone who can find their own steps even in the dark. But his hands were gentle and his smile kind, his steps as measured as his touches and not once did she trip. And as they danced around each other the silence was only broken by her smiles and laughter every now and then, when her skirts caught on the occasional branch or her hair spun and hit him in caught him in the eye once.

He watched her… and though it was night and the moon was in the sky, she felt like she usually did when she was standing under the hot sun and dry wind, aiming her next arrow at the target, holding the bow with both hands. And the same as with the target, she could not really concentrate herself on the steps. The way he watched her spit her attention between the next spot where her foot should be and the awareness of his eyes on her face, watching her cheek or her nose, her eye or her lips or her scar, all shadowed by the night and yet, lit by the moon, because she had to look up at him to see him, and this time, she never one had looked away from his eyes. And she thought, as they danced in silence just a little while longer, this is what it feels to be beautiful."

o

TBC::: And OH MY GOD am i tired. this chapter almost killed me! let me know your thoughts though, you know how i love them.


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